


Arranging a Dream

by elephantfootprints



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Asexual Arthur, Asexual Character, M/M, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-03-17 02:26:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 73,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3511784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elephantfootprints/pseuds/elephantfootprints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If you want a job doing right, you do it yourself. Which is of course why Arthur is going to arrange his own marriage.</p><p>(Rating refers to the events in one chapter, the rest of the fic is G)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the irreplaceable and irresistible [Holesinthesky](http://theresholesinthesky.tumblr.com) and [LadyPrydian](http://ladyprydian.tumblr.com)

Arthur is fairly adept at slipping his guards, and for the most part the guards have accepted this habit. The people of Proclus are on the whole too sensible to try and attack a prince of the realm, and those that might be tempted are unlikely to be interested in the unmarried ninth-born child. Most of the time, Arthur is perfectly safe to be out and about by himself, and too stubborn for the guards to bother trying to dissuade him from his solo ventures. Too stubborn for most of the guards, anyway.

There’s a sigh behind Arthur as he walks swiftly into the marketplace.

“If you aren’t going to let me do my job, then I can’t be held responsible if something happens to you, sir,” Arthur’s guard, Nash, says. Nash is fairly good at his job as a castle guard, but he’s ill-equipped for dealing with a charge who isn’t interested in his protection. 

“Nothing will happen to me,” Arthur says dismissively. “It’s one of the perks of being the youngest son. No one’s really interested in me.”

“You’re still a target, sir,” Nash insists, “for thieves and other unsavoury characters.”

“I’ve only brought coin for shopping,” Arthur says. “If I’m robbed it will hardly bring the treasury to it’s knees.”

Nash opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur holds up a hand. “Treat it like an afternoon off. Go see what the world has to offer Proclus. I’m sure you can find a trinket to amuse your husband with, or a pretty bauble to send to your mother.”

“Yes, sir,” Nash says, accepting the dismissal. He obediently wanders off, blending discreetly amongst the crowd. 

When Arthur is stressed or worried, he liked to disappear into the world of the marketplace. Being followed around by a tangible reminder of his royal status, a large part of his current problem, would make the entire expedition rather counterproductive. Arthur allows Nash to follow him down a few streets before ducking smoothly into a hard-to-spot alleyway and tipping a table as he cuts across an open air tea shop, leaving behind a small confused and angry crowd blocking the path he just took. From there it is a simple matter of drawing a tailor into a discussion on cravats and keeping an eye out for Nash. Once Arthur confirms he is alone, he thanks the tailor for their input and starts looping back around in the direction he is certain he spotted a Morrowian pastry stall.

The atmosphere of the market settles over Arthur and his mind turns to his problem. Ordinarily, the concerns of castle life seem small and foolish in the light of the marketplace. From the moment Arthur first ventured forth into this world, it felt as though he was stepping into some kind of strange and fantastical dream. All around him were bright colours and strange scents so unlike the staid decor of the castle. Everywhere he looked there had been movement, children playing and small animals darting for safety, and the buildings themselves felt alive, half-constructed from canvas and tents making them look like they were breathing as they shifted and swayed in the breeze. Impossible was not usually an issue in the marketplace.

“Your majesty!” an overly excited vendor calls out. “You must take a scarf! Free of charge, in honour of Robert’s marriage!”

Falling back easily on his lessons, Arthur manages to politely turn down the vendor and repress his scowl. Robert’s wedding isn’t strictly the cause of Arthur’s problem, but it has definitely set things in motion. It’s not something Arthur is going to forget about, but it still irritates him to be reminded of it. He briefly wonders when merchants grew bold enough to address someone of his status with such casualness, unsure if things were actually changing, or if he was only aware of it because it annoyed him so. Fearing this might become a trend, Arthur moves into a busier street and makes a point of avoiding eye contact with the vendors.

Robert is the eighth-born royal child and two weeks ago he entered into a productive marriage with a wealthy and well connected highborn lady. This of course means that Arthur’s parents will soon be arranging his marriage. Arthur may be the ninth child and fifth son, but that does not mean he is not useful to the kingdom. The work he does providing research and reasoned opinions pales in comparison to his worth as a husband. All children must get married, rich or poor, royal or common, that is their duty to themselves, their family and their country, and Arthur knows this, but he can’t help but hate it. 

There’s little chance he will be sent away as many of his siblings have been, particularly with Cobol’s staunch refusal to consider the attempts King Marnack has been making to secure their alliance through a royal marriage, but that’s a small comfort. The underlying fact is that Arthur must marry, and marry productively and Arthur has no interest in bedding a wife. If anything he finds the idea quite unpleasant. Arthur has no interest in bedding a husband either, although if he allows himself to think about it, committing his life to another man is the far more palatable option. But it’s useless to consider, even idly: royal marriages are always productive.

It’s not that there is any sense of shame in unproductive marriages, nor is it shunned by the wealthy. Robert’s bride has four older sisters who were all married off unproductively, to wives who raised their family’s social connections and benefitted from the family’s enormous wealth. For the highborns, productive and unproductive marriages are simply tools used to solidify and expand their wealth, and their social and political spheres of influence. It’s accepted that some alliances need to be more temporary than others. It is always a risk to form the more permanent connections that span into at least the next generation. They weigh the pros and cons of each and try to make the best decisions for their family.

The royal family simply cannot operate like this. If a family is worthy of marrying into the royal family, it would be deeply insulting to offer them less than the permanent connection that comes from productive marriages. To offer an unproductive marriage would be tantamount to saying the family is only of temporary use to the royal family, and will be unceremoniously discarded with the next generation. Any family deemed acceptable enough to join with the royal one would not be able to accept such treatment.

Somehow, even amongst the otherworldliness of the marketplace, it seems like Arthur’s only option is to accept that he will marry productive, bed a well-connected or wealthy woman of his parents’ choosing, and produce several children.

Disheartened and distracted, Arthur suddenly realises he has taken a wrong turn somewhere and has ended up in the Northern quadrant of the marketplace, amongst the furniture and tapestries. He sighs and takes in his surroundings, trying to work out which paths he can reasonably expect to join up with the Western quadrant, where the food stalls tend, fairly reliably, to be set up, conveniently close to the docks for the freshest fish. Arthur is trying to map out the path he just took in his mind when a voice interrupts him.

“Excuse me sir, I believe you dropped this.” Arthur turns to find a strange man holding out a coin purse. He’s dressed in peculiar, foreign clothes that hang loosely on his well-muscled frame. On his face is a demure expression, that is somewhat belied by the mischief glinting in his grey-green eyes. For a moment, Arthur is too distracted by the small grin that seems to be tugging at the corner of the man’s mouth to realise what has happened. 

“You’ve pick-pocketed me!” Arthur exclaims, surprised. 

For all that Arthur had been dismissive of Nash’s concerns, he’s well aware that even as the unimportant second youngest child, Arthur is still a prince of the realm and a very wealthy and connected man, or at least he will be upon his marriage and entrance to full adulthood. The thought of being dependent upon a guard is abhorrent to Arthur, not just because he finds the thought of constantly relying upon a guard oppressive, but because he cannot tolerate the idea of being truly helpless. So he had taken it upon himself to learn defensive fighting, and had his clothes all tailored so he could conceal a dagger and be nigh on impossible to steal from. There’s no way he would have simply dropped his coin purse and he ought to be essentially immune to such common thievery. It’s difficult for Arthur to work out if he’s more outraged or impressed at the man’s skill and subsequent audacity in drawing attention to his criminal action.

“I could have your hand for this,” Arthur informs the man coolly, taking back his purse and tucking it away. He can’t remember ever being so intrigued by another person.

“For returning your coin purse?” the man says and his expression would be the perfect portrait of innocent confusion, only he can’t seem to control the brightness in his eyes. 

“I suppose you expect a reward, then?” Arthur says, sighing regally. He’s only partly playacting. The con is fairly novel, stealing and then returning valuable items in the hope of a reward, legitimising any earnings and potentially making a connection for future employment, but it’s less interesting now that Arthur has seen though it. At this juncture he can either go along with the con and pay the man, or have him arrested, but either way their interaction will soon be cut short. It’s a pity as the man had briefly offered Arthur a distraction from his circling thoughts.

“You could allow me to keep my hand,” the man suggests, grinning playfully at Arthur and Arthur nearly returns the expression, delighted to find he has been mistaken. The man seems to want to jest with Arthur, of all things, which leaves room for Arthur to try and discover if the man is more attractive still when he laughs. The idea that this man could be more appealing would have seemed absurd before Arthur saw how much he lit up when he smiled. Now Arthur wonders if it’s possible for the man’s eyes to get brighter, or if he scrunches them up when he laughs. He wants to know if they soften into a brighter green or darken into a deeper grey.

“Stealing is a crime of far greater magnitude than the goodness that is returning a man’s lost purse,” Arthur says, feeling strangely proud when the remark makes the man beam with delight.

“You’re quite right,” the man says. “That won’t do at all. We may need to ruminate on this further.”

“If we are to discuss this properly, I feel I need to know your name,” Arthur says.

“Eames, at your service,” the man says, giving a flowery, exaggerated bow. “And you?”

“Arthur,” Arthur replies. He’s not sure if Eames genuinely doesn’t recognise him or not, but he’s more than happy to pretend to just be Arthur for now, not his royal highness Arthur Scott Affan Norman Cobb, fifth born son and ninth born child to their royal majesties King Marnack and Queen Alexandra, rulers of Proclus and defenders of the realm. The bow he gives in return is much more staid, and he holds out his hand, taken aback but pleased by the kiss Eames pressed to the back of it.

“Well, Arthur, how are we going to solve this one?” Eames says. “What’s the appropriate course of action to take with someone you suspect has stolen and then returned your purse?”

“Oddly enough none of my etiquette classes have ever covered this particular topic,” Arthur says. “You present me with a unique problem.”

“They say I’m one of a kind,” Eames says, giving Arthur a wink. “Still, I’m sure we can muddle through. What lies between removing someone’s hand and giving them a big reward?”

“You handed me back a coin purse,” Arthur says. “It was hardly something that deserved receiving a title or promising one of my cousins' hands in marriage.”

“I thought perhaps the good deed was amplified by my dazzling charm and devastating good looks,” Eames says, pouting slightly. The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks before he cans stop it.

“There you are mistaken, Mr Eames,” Arthur says. “At best I would have given you a few coins to buy yourself a pastry.”

“Stingy bastard,” Eames says, frowning. “I’m beginning to regret returning the purse at all.”

Though Arthur is sure Eames is still playing with him, there’s an edge to his jest that Arthur doesn’t like. He hastens to rectify his coolness. “What would you have me do instead? Perhaps I can find it in myself to accommodate you.”

Eames brightens slightly. “Well for a start, you shouldn’t just send me off on my own. I would expect you would accompany me to eat this pasty, and take the opportunity to thank me profusely for saving you from the horror of losing your fortune. You might even manage to drop in some comments about my virtuous nature, my goodness in going out of the way to help you, and of course my handsomeness.”

“What does that have to do with returning my purse?” Arthur asks, amused despite himself.

“Oh, nothing really,” Eames says. “It just seems to come up a lot in conversation.”

“Undoubtedly,” Arthur says. “Perhaps the solution to our conundrum is simply that I will have to both reward and punish you.”

“Well that certainly sounds promising,” Eames says, smirking. Arthur resists rolling his eyes.

“I will share a pastry with you, as requested, although I make no promises as to the topics of conversation while we dine,” Arthur says. “And as further proof of my gratitude, I won’t have your hand removed until after we have eaten.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Eames says. Arthur inclines his head briefly and accepts Eames’s offered arm, sliding a hand in to hold onto his elbow. It feels daring to walk arm in arm with Eames. The action is fairly common among the highborn, between siblings, spouses, and even friends, but from a young age Arthur has been taught to keep himself apart from others. He does not want to appear to be showing favour to anyone. He cannot risk leading anyone on, or give the impression he is snubbing someone when it would be disadvantageous or inconvenient to accept the gesture from them. As he does not want to spoil the fiction that he is an ordinary market-goer, Arthur cannot refuse the gesture from Eames, and nor does he want to. It’s surprisingly easy to put aside years of lessons to settle in and enjoy Eames’s company.

When the reach the end of a street, Eames’s hand slides down to lace his fingers with Arthur’s and Arthur is startled to suddenly find himself being dragged along behind Eames, as Eames pulls them down the very narrow aisle formed between the backs of some clothing stalls. Eames holds on to Arthur firmly and confidently. Arthur is too shocked by this impropriety to say anything, so he simply allows it and goes along with Eames’s madness, concentrating instead on not tripping over the poles and ropes that secure the canvas roofs and walls of the shops. It’s a tight fit and not a straight passage, forcing them to weave around the more solid frames and occasionally enter the stalls and ignore the shouts of the owners and the shrieks of the customers. Arthur is feeling too giddy to worry about being recognised, and accepts the risk, just tries to keep his face turned away as much as possible. At last they emerge, bursting breathlessly onto one of the more permanent streets and Arthur realises they are just around the corner from where he had hoped to find his favourite bakery. Eames gives Arthur a pleased smirk, and releases his hand.

“What a novel way of getting around,” Arthur says, but it doesn’t come out as dryly as he had intended. It can’t, not when his cheeks are flushed, he is still catching his breath, and the warmth from Eames’s hand still lingers. He glances back down the way they came and tucks the information away, wanting to add it to what he knows of the marketplace and try to work out if he can attempt to repeat the experience, or if it a method only Eames can get away with.

“Yes, I find it does the trick,” Eames says. “Some people find it difficult to get around the marketplace, but I find those people are simply lacking in imagination.”

“Is that would you would call it?” Arthur says. Discovering new secrets of the markets is usually one of Arthur’s favourite things to do, yet he finds he is only distantly interested in the new form of travel. Right now he is faced with the more pressing question of how such an impossible man can exist. And perhaps more importantly, how Arthur can keep Eames in his life. 

“Oh yes,” Eames says. “You can’t use logic and reason to try and master the marketplace. She needs to be coaxed and challenged, and whatever you do you mustn’t bore her.”

It’s absurd for Eames to talk about the marketplace as though it is a beast to be tamed, but Arthur has never heard such a perfect description of the place.

“What happens if you bore her?” Arthur asks, letting himself be drawn into Eames’s nonsense, accepting that when it comes to the marketplace, sometimes nonsense is the only possible way to explain anything.

“She’ll sulk and ignore you,” Eames says. “And if enough people bore her too often, she’ll eventually wither and die.”

“It’s like a dream,” Arthur says impulsively. “There are almost no limitations if your mind can cope with the rejection of reality, but if it can’t then there’s nothing left for you to do but wake up.”

“Yes, precisely,” Eames says, sounding thrilled with Arthur and Arthur tries to not feel too pleased by this. “Now come along, darling, we have pastry to eat.”

Arthur follows Eames half a step behind. It had taken him a moment to unfreeze after Eames’s casual use of the affectionate name, his mind whirling around what it could possibly mean. They are so far beyond the normal rules of propriety, Arthur has no idea if it means anything to have Eames talk to him thusly. Nothing so far has suggested that Eames is a creature of rationality, and Arthur thinks it would be foolish to try and understand him in rational terms. 

“Good morning,” Eames says, smiling congenially at the woman behind the counter. He glances over the pastries on display and begins ordering. “We’ll have three of the cheese nests, six raisin puffs, two ham rolls, and a chocolate fold. Arthur, anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Arthur says, startled by the quantity of food Eames has ordered. Before he can take out his coin purse, Eames has handed over a rather generous payment for their food.

“And I don’t suppose there’s anywhere for us to sit?” Eames asks, giving the woman a hopeful expression. She nods and finds two crates and a small table for them to sit at. The street is quite narrow, but she tucks them as close to the front of shop as possible, so passersby don’t trip over them. It’s hard for Arthur to decide if it was the excessive amount Eames paid for the pastries that has achieved this, or the way Eames smiled at the woman, eyes crinkling around the corners. Either way, it’s a novel way of dining, Arthur thinks, trying to arrange himself on the impromptu seat.

“How do you manage to make this look like a court dinner?” Eames asks, grinning at Arthur, soft and amused. The crates have apparently proved no hardship for Eames, who slouches comfortably across from Arthur. His clothes are far better suited to outdoor dining, loose layers that are allowed to move with Eames’s body, unlike Arthur’s stiff brocades and closely fitted cottons.

“The first step I find is removing your elbows from the table,” Arthur replies. His eyes catch on the dark ink that peeks out just above Eames’s elbow, where the loose fabric has fallen down. When he tears his eyes away, Eames is smirking insouciantly and Arthur feels the need to scold him, slightly embarrassed to have been caught staring. 

“And do sit up straight, Mr Eames, or I will feel inclined to find a book for you to balance on your head.” 

Eames beams, which is a wholly unexpected, but not unpleasant result.

“Darling, did you slouch as a child?” Eames asks eagerly. Just as before, the affectionate term rolls easily from Eames’s tongue, as though it were perfectly natural he should address Arthur in this manner. This time, Arthur is not frozen by shock in response to the word, but instead he feels like he is stepping into a whole new world. He’s been enjoying the informal way Eames has been addressing him, but this casual tenderness is shocking and exciting and Arthur still has no idea what it means. It’s not clear how he is meant to respond, if Eames will keep doing it, or how to make sure his heart doesn’t skip next time it happens.

“No,” Arthur says, shaking his head and deciding the best course of action is to simply ignore the endearment. He can hardly say he approves of it, and besides which, it feels like drawing attention to it will break the spell. It feels safer to just go along with it, and hope Eames doesn’t stop. “My younger sister, Ariadne, did, but we shared an etiquette tutor.”

Eames nods thoughtfully, as though tucking this little tidbit away. To his horror, Arthur realises he just volunteered personal information about a member of his family, unprompted, to a total stranger. The information is hardly disreputable, and Eames does not seem the sort to rub shoulders with courtiers, but Arthur never lets his guard down like that. Discretion is an essential quality in a member of the royal family, and something Arthur has never found difficult. Until now, apparently.

“I can’t help but notice you paid for lunch, Mr Eames,” Arthur says, desperate to change the subject and not caring if it’s a clumsy transition. “That seems a poor reward for your good deed.”

“Ah, but you also agreed not to remove my hand until I had been rewarded,” Eames says. “Which is a terrible incentive for me to let you pay.”

“Your logic is flawed,” Arthur says, letting his lips curl into a small smile. “I never said anything about paying in our amended agreement. I was simply going to pay out of common courtesy. You’ve swindled yourself out of a free meal, I’m afraid.”

“What a shame,” Eames says, shaking his head and heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You aren’t going to hold me to the single shared pastry, I hope?”

Eames takes the chocolate fold and breaks it in two, handing half to Arthur. There’s a perfectly serviceable plate in front of Arthur that Eames could have put the food onto, and Arthur’s pocket has a handkerchief that he could use to receive it, yet somehow Arthur finds himself in the peculiar position of taking the food directly from Eames’s hand. Their fingers brush as they transfer the pastry, fingers growing sticky from the softened chocolate and the honey glaze. For a moment, Arthur is completely distracted by the fact that he is about to eat something that has come straight from Eames’s hands, not sure why the idea is so appealing to him. Heavens only knows what those thieving fingers have been handling. Arthur should by rights be disgusted by the prospect. Too much time has passed before the meaning of what Eames has said clicks for Arthur, and he takes a small bite of the pastry to cover for his delayed response.

“So this small feast was a ploy, then?” Arthur asks. “A way to get more from me than offered.”

“Can’t blame a man for trying, pet,” Eames says. “I have no idea if you will come back to see me again, so I must try and make the most of it while you’re still here.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and tuts disapprovingly, keeping his utter delight at Eames’s words well hidden. He knows that it’s quite likely Eames knows who he is and is only interested in spending time with Arthur, prince of the realm, not Arthur, marketplace enthusiast and pastry lover, but it’s still nice to know Eames doesn’t want him to go right away. It’s still nice to hear yet another endearment slip fondly from Eames’s lips.

“At least you don’t presume I will come back to collect your hand in person,” Arthur says. 

“If you come asking for my hand, I would be rather inclined to give it to you,” Eames says, winking at him.

“I should really take both,” Arthur says, ignoring the comment, “for the good of the people. I can’t let a thief and a vagabond like yourself run around.”

“I’m not a thief,” Eames says indignantly, and Arthur isn’t sure if he is genuinely offended, or simply pretending. “Well, not just a thief,” he amends. Arthur relaxes fractionally, unsure why he cared so deeply if Eames was upset by his comment.

“Oh?” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. “Pray tell, what is your other occupation? I trust it is equally disreputable.”

Eames laughs. “I’m certainly not doing the fine work of a courtier, but I doubt anyone would object to my profession. I’m a merchant. Although I suppose it would be more accurate to say that my father is a merchant and I’m his unmarried layabout son, living on his coin.”

Arthur nods. Though Eames is clearly quick fingered, Arthur had doubted he was actually a thief. The contents of Arthur’s purse is more than enough to satisfy a street criminal. Enough to be more enticing than any reasonable reward for returning it, and certainly more desirable than the significant risk that Arthur would simply have had Eames arrested. A merchant’s son made more sense. It explains his familiarly with the market, the ease with which he interacts with the vendors, the bizarre mismatched outfit he wears. Arthur considers the merchant’s stalls he was familiar with, and suddenly realises he knows who Eames’s father is.

“If your father shares your name, then you have been too modest,” Arthur says. “Your father is one of the wealthiest merchants in the country.”

Eames shrugs indifferently. “He keeps me in pastries and leaves me free to rescue highborns from crooks and opportunists, which we can all agree is a far more more noble pursuit.”

“The nobility of your rescue is somewhat undermined by the fact that you robbed me in the first place,” Arthur points out.

“Details,” Eames says, waving a hand dismissively. “The salient point is I have now reduced a handsome lord and should be riding off into the sunset soon.”

It’s impossible to know what Eames might mean by the handsome comment when it comes in the middle of a nonsensical statement, so Arthur ignores it. “Mr Eames, I am impressed,” Arthur says. “You had me truly convinced me you weren’t mad.”

“Oh, I’m quite sane, darling,” Eames assures him. “It’s a story they tell children in Cobol. I’m fairly certain it’s usually ladies and princesses who are rescued, but the sentiment applies I feel.”

“You are not improving my opinion of Cobol,” Arthur says. “Why would anyone want to go riding at twilight, much less someone who has just been accosted?”

“It’s symbolic,” Eames says. “They’re riding off into a better tomorrow.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but refrains from commenting on the sentimentalities of their stranger neighbour. They drift into more idle chatter, Eames telling Arthur of some of the more peculiar things he has seen and heard in his travels with his father, Arthur trying to find interesting things to talk about from his own experiences visiting neighbouring countries for his siblings’ weddings. At last all of the food is eaten and there is no reason for them to loiter any longer.

“Mr Eames it has been a strange pleasure,” Arthur says.

“Until next time then, darling,” Eames says, grasping Arthur’s hand and kissing it, a much fonder press of lips than Arthur is used to. “Unless next time you intend to remove appendages, of course.”

Eames gives Arthur a wink and wanders off, disappearing into a side alley Arthur’s not sure really exists. The whole afternoon has felt surreal enough that Arthur could almost believe that Eames was simply a figment the marketplace conjured to amuse him. Shaking his head to clear these fanciful thoughts, Arthur sighs and tries to work out where Nash might have ended up.

 

“How much longer do you think we’ll be eating chicken sausages?” Ariadne says, groaning and flopping down on Dom’s bed. 

“Cook’s convinced it is a rare delicacy and not fit for the servants,” Yusuf says, looking up from the shirt he is mending to give Ariadne a teasing grin. “She’s quite insistent only the royal family and the most important guests get to eat it. You might be eating it for the rest of your life, Ari.”

“She can’t have made that much,” Ariadne says. “Besides which, the meat will go off at some point, surely.”

“I dunno,” Dom says, winking at Yusuf. “The amount of spices and salt she’s loaded them up with, they might outlast you.”

“Death would feel like the sweeter option at this point,” Ariadne says mournfully. 

“Why don’t you bring one of the dogs in with you?” Arthur says, stretching out on Dom’s chaise lounge. 

“I tried that,” Ariadne says. “Mother stopped me before I could get it out of the kennels. She said it’s not proper for a lady to take a hunting dog to dinner with her. I don’t understand why father doesn’t just order the whole batch of disastrous things to be thrown out.”

“They’re Robert’s celebratory wedding sausages,” Arthur says. “It would be insulting their union if we don’t keep eating them. Mother will make us swallow every last bite if it kills us.”

“Father loves them,” Dom says. Ariadne sits up and looks at him, screwing her face up.

“Really?” she says.

“Oh yes,” Dom says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he commissions the same butcher to design Arthur’s wedding meats.”

“Kill me now,” Ariadne says. Arthur frowns at the mention of his inevitable marriage. He had come home from the marketplace with no clearer idea what to do about the fact he didn’t want to get married.

“Here you go,” Yusuf says, throwing the shirt at Dom.

“Your stitching is improving,” Dom says. “These are far straighter than last time.”

“Thank you,” Yusuf says.

“Although maybe next time you might want to consider sewing with thread the same colour as the shirt,” Dom says, holding the shirt up for Arthur and Ariadne to look at. There are bright red stitches standing out against the white shirt. Ariadne laughs and Arthur sighs.

“Hey, you want it done better, you do it yourself,” Yusuf says.

“It is your job,” Arthur points out. Yusuf glares at him.

“We all know Dom keeps me around because of my adorable face and my hangover cures,” Yusuf says. “My ability to sew seams has nothing to do with my job security.”

“It’s true,” Dom says. “Every time I think about firing him, he gives me this little smile and reminds me of the days before his miracle cures.”

“Sometimes I threaten to hit him over the head before he goes into meetings, so he can remember what it used to be like sitting in on treaty discussions when he can’t see straight,” Yusuf says.

“Oh yeah, how is the Cobol treaty going?” Ariadne asks.

“Fine,” Dom says. “The signing is all set for tomorrow. They still won’t agree to a marriage secured-alliance, but if the treaty holds, it should serve as well.”

“It’ll hold,” Ariadne says, shrugging. “They never secure treaties with marriage, it doesn’t mean they can’t be trusted.”

“Their views on marriage are pretty strange,” Arthur says. “I haven’t been able to work out specifics, but they don’t seem to marry politically, at least not with other countries.”

“They don’t do arranged marriages,” Ariadne says.

“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, frowning. He sits up and gives Ariadne a studied look. “They definitely have legal marriages, so they must arrange them somehow, even if it isn’t political.”

Ariadne shakes her head. “They marry for love.”

“Well of course they do,” Arthur says. “Everyone knows the emotional bond makes the marriage more secure. The marriage won’t work if you can’t find a way to love your spouse.”

“No, I mean they fall in love first,” Ariadne says. “They court whoever they are interested in and propose marriage after they fall in love.”

“How does that work?” Arthur says, frowning. “That would be a disaster, the whole country would fall apart. And what if falling in love doesn’t work but you’ve already produced children?”

“Sex before marriage is taboo over there, too,” Ariadne says. “But you don’t have to have sex to fall in love.”

The statement stops Arthur completely. He can’t remember what he was going to say, he can barely remember what they are talking about. He has no idea where Ariadne has gotten this idea from, it’s utterly foreign to everything they have been raised with. Everyone knows sex is a cornerstone in all marriages because it is creates the strong bond between spouses, allowing them to find love and contentment in their lives together. Ever since Arthur came to terms with the fact that he does not want to have sex, he has accepted that he must also therefore not want love, not the deep love of a strong and happy marriage. What Ariadne is suggesting is ridiculous, and clearly wrong, and an absolutely bewitching idea. Arthur shakes his head sharply. He cannot afford to let himself believe in such absurd notions, it will only lead to heartache.

“Arthur?” Ariadne asks softly. She’s looking at him in concern, they all are.

“Sorry,” Arthur says. “I was just thinking about how bizarre the Cobols are. Just today someone told me some of the strange things they tell their children, some nonsense about symbolically riding at sunset after being attacked.”

“They’re different,” Ariadne says. “But I don’t know if they are totally wrong.”

“Who have you been talking to, anyway?” Arthur asks. “I’ve been trying to research them for months and it’s impossible to find any information on them. They keep all of their written records carefully locked away and we’ve yet to get permission to read any of their scholarship.”

“Just traders,” Ariadne says. “People who have been there, some Cobols who moved here. They don’t allow unproductive marriages over there, so they move to places where it’s legal.”

“I think the blacksmiths who shoe our horses might be from Cobol,” Dom says. “They don’t advertise it, but I heard them whispering in the language a few weeks ago.”

“I’ll have to talk to them,” Arthur says absently. “I wonder where people go if they don’t want to marry at all.”

“What do you mean?” Dom asks, bemused.

“I’m not married,” Yusuf points out. Arthur knows this, of course, but he’s never really thought about it. Yusuf’s marital status is just yet another of his odd quirks. Looking at him now, though, Arthur wonders if perhaps Yusuf is similarly afflicted with a disinterest in the marriage bed. If that’s the case, he’s in an ideal position: orphaned and with no siblings needing him, steady employment but no property or assets to worry about inheritances for. Nothing, in short, to propel him towards marriage, beyond the usual social pressures he can happily ignore, and the fact that as the personal valet to the crown prince he is a very eligible bachelor and must surely receive offers from hopeful suitors.

“No, but you are an odd duck,” Ariadne says fondly. “Always have been.”

“That’s true,” Yusuf says. “My mother always used to get cagey when people would ask if I was ever dropped as a child, maybe there’s something wrong with me.”

“Must be something wrong with you if you don’t want to get married,” Arthur says ruefully.

“Arthur, are you getting cold feet about your own upcoming nuptials?” Dom asks, smirking at him. “Don’t worry, I’m certain Mother will manage find someone to meet whatever exacting standards you might have. She’s had a good track record so far, and with Cobol out there’s no more countries to send you off to.”

“Maybe she’ll find you a courtier and you can just stay here,” Yusuf says. “No disruption to your life.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, summoning what he hopes is a convincing smile. He’s glad when the conversation moves on to Mal’s continued absence from meals, feeling slightly ill at the knowledge that if he doesn’t work something out soon, his parents will find him someone to marry and there will be nothing he can do about it. At this point, Arthur doesn’t even know if there could be a solution to his problem. To arrange for the kind of marriage he wants is like trying to arrange a dream, and right now the world is demanding he wake up.


	2. The Idea

Early next morning there’s a knock on Arthur’s door. He moves quickly to open it, curious as to who would come calling at this hour.

“Ariadne,” Arthur says, surprised. Ariadne is not an early bird at the best of times, and yet here she is, standing at Arthur’s door more than an hour before breakfast, fully dressed and smiling cheerfully.

“Good morning, Arthur,” Ariadne says. Arthur narrows his eyes at Ariadne, studying her for a moment before letting her in.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of a pre-breakfast visit?” Arthur asks as Ariadne slumps down on his settee. He perches himself in the armchair opposite. “I find it hard to imagine how you could have gotten into trouble since going to bed last night, but I try not to underestimate you.”

“Thanks Arthur,” Ariadne says, giving him a dirty look. “But, no, I haven’t managed to bring the country to ruin overnight. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Is everything okay?” Arthur asks.

“Yeah,” Ariadne says. “No crises. I was just thinking about what we talked about last night.”

“Mal?” Arthur guesses. Dom had been cagey about what was keeping Mal tucked up in her chambers, simply saying she was not well.

“No, about marriage,” Ariadne says.

“Nothing for you to worry about for a little while,” Arthur says, knowing the sentiment is somewhat lacking. His own marriage will be arranged within the next few months, and Ariadne’s will follow soon after. The clock is ticking for both of them.

“Don’t you wonder if maybe the Cobols have it the right way around?” Ariadne says. “That we should fall in love first and only marry once that has happened.”

“It’s not that simple, Ari,” Arthur says gently. In truth, the prospect of being expected to fall in love with someone first before marrying them is daunting to Arthur. He finds it hard enough to imagine being able to fall in love with a wife, let alone fall in love with a stranger. “We arrange marriages that best suit the needs of our families and our country. Who you marry affects more than just yourself.”

“But it affects us most of all,” Ariadne argues. “This is the person we are expected to spend the rest of our lives with, to love and work with, and sometimes raise children together. Surely we deserve the final say.”

“Mother and Father aren’t about to make you marry someone you’ll hate,” Arthur reassures her. He truly does believe this, and it brings him some small measure of comfort. “That sort of union would never last. I know it seems daunting now, but you’re not going to be asked to marry a stranger. Mother and Father will find someone suitable and introduce you and make sure there’s no obvious problems before they even start the negotiations. And then there’s the courting period and even the wedding is just the first step to falling in love.”

“I don’t want to marry someone I don’t already love,” Ariadne says. Arthur stares at her, startled.

“You really mean what you said last night,” Arthur says. “You think you can fall in love with someone before you marry them. Before you… bed them.”

“I do,” Ariadne says. “I don’t think true love can come about simply because loving someone would secure an alliance.”

“You don’t think Dom and Mal are truly in love then?” Arthur asks, unsure how someone can live with Dom and Mal and yet doubt that true love can come from a politically arranged marriage. 

“No, of course not,” Ariadne says. “I’m not saying people can’t love, can’t fall truly in love in those circumstances, but I think they fell in love because of who they are, not because it brought stability to the country. And maybe it does work out most of the time. But that’s not what I want.”

“You’ll fall in love with whoever they choose,” Arthur says, but the words feel hollow in his mouth. Ariadne frowns at him.

“You don’t want to get married that way either,” Ariadne says, sounding quite certain.

Arthur shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know if I want to get married at all,” Arthur admits. 

“Do you have a… preference?” Ariadne asks delicately, cheeks pinking. “For men, I mean?”

Everyone knows that your true preference when it comes to marriage must be whatever best suits your family, but there are of course those who harbour stronger feelings for one sex over the other. It’s embarrassing, and while some families can afford to discreetly make sure you end up in a marriage best suited to your needs, the usual course of events is to accept that preferences are a bit strange and unnatural and do your best to get over them. Arthur thinks he might be more partial to the company of men, but he doesn’t know how to explain that his preference is no one. If it were up to him, he would simply not get married and therefore have no obligations to have sex. 

“It’s not that,” Arthur says, but he can tell from the considering look Ariadne give him that his hesitation in answering has made her suspicious. “And even if it were, what would it matter? I am the son of the ruling monarch and so I must marry productively.”

“But you don’t want to,” Ariadne says. Arthur sighs.

“It’s useless to discuss this, Ari,” Arthur says. “We must marry, and marry for the family, and there’s nothing to be done otherwise.”

Ariadne shakes her head. “I can’t believe that,” she says, and Arthur is startled to see her eyes are damp. “And you shouldn’t either.” She stands and presses a swift kiss to Arthur’s cheek before exiting, leaving Arthur to puzzle over what Ariadne could possibly have in mind.

 

The celebrations for Robert’s wedding are finally finished, but Arthur is no less busy for it. He spends the morning approving guest lists for James’s naming day and finalising the dinner for the diplomats from Cobol. The work is familiar, which is a relief as Arthur is finding it impossible to concentrate on his task. 

His mind is still caught on the conversation he had with Ariadne. Her insistence that she will not simply accept that she must be party to an arranged marriage, as all of her siblings have been, as everyone they know has been, or will be one day, is inexplicable to Arthur. For weeks Arthur has been completely preoccupied by what he can do to avoid the whole marriage business and has come up completely blank. Not even a trip to the marketplace had unearthed any outlandish solutions. 

Of course, Arthur thinks wryly to himself, perhaps simply venturing into the markets was not enough. Perhaps he ought to have asked one of its residents. With a shake of his head and a small huff of laughter, he thinks to himself maybe Eames has the solution to his problem?

Arthur leans back in his chair, ignoring the voice of his mother and various tutors demanding he sit properly, and thinks carefully. The notion that Eames might have the answer might not be that absurd. After all, Eames is the son of a very wealthy and well connected merchant and yet Arthur is positive he said he was unmarried. It can be difficult to guess merchant’s ages, but Arthur thinks Eames is at least as old as himself, most likely a few years older. Royals are the only ones who arrange marriages one child at a time according to birth order, so no matter which child Eames is, he’s still too old for his family to not even be in negotiations with someone. 

But then, Eames hadn’t said his family _weren’t_ in negotiations. The thought is rather unpleasant to Arthur. He finds it hard to imagine Eames being forced to marry someone. Of course, not everyone, he reminds himself firmly, is opposed to marriage. It’s entirely possible that Eames is looking forward to it, and his family are just trying to find the best partner for him. Somehow the thought is no more appealing to Arthur. He frowns and summons a servant to collect the guest list, trying to clear his mind of Eames. 

Not long after the first servant has left, a second arrives with a request for his presence from Dom. Arthur stands and leaves the room quickly, grateful for the distraction. Not letting himself think about Eames, or feel an odd sense of guilt over Ariadne’s predicament, had left Arthur’s mind to circle around the impossible notion that sex was not necessary for love. Arthur couldn’t afford to let the idea burrow into his mind. Sex was a part of marriage, and for all that Ariadne might be clinging to this bizarre Cobolian notion, even she seemed to accept the inevitability of marriage and the marriage bed.

 

“Arthur,” Dom says, reaching out to clap a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur is taken about by the strain in Dom’s voice, relief and desperation mixing strangely. “I need you to come to the signing with me.”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees automatically. Dom wanting Arthur’s company in state affairs is nothing unusual. Despite their difference in ages, Dom respects Arthur’s opinions and will happily accept his advice. When meeting with diplomats, foreign royals or their own people, Arthur can be quite useful in providing important information or distracting certain parties. But never before had Dom asked for Arthur with this degree of urgency. Never before had it felt like Dom was almost begging Arthur to come with him.

“Thanks,” Dom says, sagging slightly. It ages him, startlingly so. Arthur wonders when Dom started to look so tired. His skin has lost it’s usual healthy glow, and there are fine lines of stress around his eyes, across his forehead, hidden somewhat by the thinness of his face. Looking over Dom, Arthur suddenly notices the strange way his clothes hang, the missing muscle definition. He must have lost at least half a stone.

Dom has always managed to fit the image of a crown prince. He’s calm and approachable, classically handsome, compassionate, and with an aura of strength and determination. From a very young age, the people have been taken with the handsome young prince. Their love for him was strengthened as he grew into an attractive and determined man whose marriage would bring with it an alliance that guaranteed safety and prosperity for the kingdom. Dom’s steadfast demeanour soothed concerns when his betrothal was dragged out to impossible lengths, at Mal’s family’s demands. It paid off when Philippa came along less than a year after the wedding, guaranteeing the alliance, and then less than two years later James followed, securing the royal line, and establishing Dom’s position as a trustworthy heir to the throne. 

Looking at him now, though, Arthur isn’t surprised Dom doesn’t want to go into this meeting alone. The Cobols refusal to seal the treaty with a royal marriage has made everyone feel a little nervous, wondering if the Cobols are taking the agreement very seriously. Dom will need to present an image of calm acceptance, trust and confidence to soothe their councillors and to keep the diplomats happy. For the first time, Arthur is concerned Dom will not be able to charm his way through any potential problems.

“I’m thinking of going to the marketplace after the signing,” Arthur says, “if you wanted to come.” The words are out of his mouth before he can consider what he is saying. He had been thinking of no such thing. There’s a pile of work he needs to catch up on, projects he had been forced to push aside during the frantic business of Robert’s wedding, and he really should try and find Ariadne to work out if she is okay. But Dom looks so stressed and lost, and he can’t quite get Eames out of his head, so the suggestion felt natural.

“That would be great,” Dom says. “I think I need to get out of the castle for a while.”

Arthur nods, recognising the sentiment, although it’s not one he has heard from Dom before. He wonders what has Dom so worried. It’s unlikely to be the Cobol treaty, the agreement is fair and while the missing marriage seal is concerning, it’s more of a cultural worry than a political one. Besides which, when Philippa is older, she will be sent to stay with the Cobol royal family and most likely the whole business will resolve itself. Dom has acted on his father’s behalf in much trickier situations, and he’s never been affected like this. 

It’s rather worrying to see Dom so out of sorts, particularly at this time. His little son is but a few weeks old, having burst into the world with all of the dramatic flair of his mother’s people right as the royal family were knee-deep in finalising Robert’s betrothal agreements, and by rights Dom should be happier and more relaxed than ever. 

 

When the final negotiations begin, Arthur’s job is to do nothing more than stand beside Dom and look confident in his brother’s abilities. There are a few moments at the beginning when Arthur feels compelled to interject, to steer Dom away from contentious topics, but soon enough the meeting falls into the hands of the king’s best negotiators and Arthur and Dom’s roles become more symbolic.

One of the Cobol servants pulls out a parchment of notes for the negotiators to refer to and Arthur is transfixed by the flowing letters. They are quite beautiful, for all that they are rough personal scrawlings, not official documentary writing and it’s a long time before Arthur realises the script is familiar. He saw something quite similar, yesterday, spread out across Eames’s skin. 

Arthur knows that Eames has had dealing with the Cobols, but telling foreign fairy tales feels is a very different matter to deciding to get the language etched permanently on your skin. It makes Arthur desperately curious to hear the story behind the tattoos, and he strains to listen to the Cobol servant to try and work out if he can attach some meanings to the swirling letters. It’s possibly the most illogical thing Arthur has ever tried to do, but he can’t bring himself to stop trying. He regrets not asking Eames to see the tattoo properly, and blushes when he realises this would have most likely involved asking Eames to remove his shirt.

Tattoos are something Arthur has only ever seen from a distance, and he wonders what they feel like. Do the letters lie flush with the skin, or are they slightly raised? 

The signing comes to a close just as Arthur is imagining asking Eames if he can trace his fingers over the letters staining his skin. The image contrasts sharply with the serious nature of the meeting and Arthur pushes it forcefully out of his mind. He can’t believe he is contemplating such things. It’s not something that would ever cross his mind in the privacy of his own chambers, let alone distract him from important diplomatic affairs. Arthur clearly has too much on his mind, between his regular duties, worrying about his upcoming arrangement, and trying to work out what is going on with his siblings. Perhaps the impulsive decision to go with Dom to the marketplace wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

 

It was Dom who first took Arthur to the markets, back when Arthur was young enough to feel free despite guards and servants following him around, but they rarely visit together anymore. Going to the marketplace with Dom is quite different to visiting by himself. The whole business is much more structured and controlled, with no real room for running around with strange merchant sons who call him ‘darling’ and drag him through impossible passageways and conjure dining setting with nothing more than a smile.

Still, Arthur is feeling guilty enough over not noticing Dom’s state that he doesn’t slip off to explore by himself. They head towards the cloth vendors, where Dom instructs the guards to find positions before moving towards a table of bright silks. As Dom runs his hands over a bolt of fabric, a soft looks comes over him and Arthur knows he is thinking of how Mal would look in a dress fashioned from the cloth. If he must marry, Arthur thinks wistfully to himself, he would want what Dom and Mal have managed to find. 

Arthur shakes his head sharply, angry with himself. It’s useless to entertain such longing; the deep love in Dom and Mal’s marriage has been built on the solid foundation of a very healthy sex life.

“Don’t you call him ‘boy’.” The angry shout of a merchant draws Arthur out of his depressing reverie. “He’s my married heir and does not deserve to be treated like some common, unmarried farm hand.”

The man’s outburst has attracted the attention of the nearby shoppers, including Dom who swiftly moves towards them. Arthur hastens to join him as a highborn woman replies.

“He is your shop hand!” the woman protests. “I was merely asking him to do his job.”

“You were ordering him about like he’s your servant,” the merchant replies angrily. “I may not have a title, but I sell my wares to half of the royal court, including material for a dress her royal highness Lady Mal wore to his highness Prince Robert’s wedding. I will not have you acting like me and mine are beneath you.”

“My lady, sir,” Dom interjects, smiling genially at the fighting pair. “May I ask what the problem is here?”

The merchant gasps and fumbles through an awkward bow and the woman smoothly drops into a curtsey.

“Your majesty,” the woman says.

“Your royal majesty, sir,” the merchant adds. “It’s an honour to have you grace my stall.”

“It’s always a treat to see what new stock you have to show us,” Dom says. “And Lady Greystone, it’s a pleasure to see you again. I trust your mother is feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you, your highness,” Lady Greystone says, adding simperingly, “All thanks to the remedy you so kindly provided.”

“I will pass your thanks on to my man, Yusuf, he’s the one who concocted the treatment,” Dom says. He turns to the merchant. “Lady Mal looked so fetching in her gown at my brother’s wedding I’ve decided I simply must have a waistcoat made up in the same fabric. I hope you have some left?”

The merchant grins at Dom. “I tucked away a bolt of it just in case, my lord,” he says.

“Excellent,” Dom says. “Please have it delivered to my tailor. Lady Greystone, I imagine you are buying fabric to make a dress for James’s naming day celebration.”

“Of course, your highness, such an event requires a new frock,” Lady Greystone says, eyes widening.

“Wonderful, well how about if we have all of the fabric sent up to the castle,” Dom says. “I’ve seen the design for Lady Ariadne’s ensemble, and this new fashion would suit you beautifully, Lady Greystone.”

“You’re too kind, your highness,” Lady Greystone says.

“Marvellous,” Dom says. He hands the merchant a small pile of coins, nods to Lady Greystone and walks away.

“‘Marvellous’?” Arthur says, mimicking Dom’s affected tone and swallowing a laugh.

“It was either that or hitting someone,” Dom says. “And I’ve been told brawling in public is not appropriate behaviour for the crown prince.”

“I also don’t recall Lady Greystone being invited to James’s naming day,” Arthur says.

“I wonder how we managed to overlook her,” Dom says.

“I’ll have her added when we get back,” Arthur says. “That was neatly done, by the way. Mother would be proud.”

“Thanks,” Dom says. “Be sure to remind her of that when she finds out I’m having my tailor make that woman a dress.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Arthur says. Dom sighs.

“You came here to get away from castle business,” Dom says. “Not to watch me play nice with the highborns and the vendors. You should go, disappear for a while, I won’t even send a guard after you.”

“Are you sure?” Arthur asks. He doesn’t like the slight bravado he can sense from Dom, but there’s not much Arthur can do about the people’s reaction to their crown prince.

“Of course, Arthur,” Dom says. “I have the guards if there’s any trouble and I’ll try to stay out of any more problems, for James’s sake if nothing else.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, wishing there was something he could do for Dom in return.

 

Without really thinking about it, Arthur finds himself in the Northern quadrant. Castle furnishings are overseen by his mother, so there’s never been much cause for Arthur to explore this area, beyond his need to map out the entirety of the markets. He's not entirely certain what he is doing here. This had been where Arthur ran into Eames yesterday, but Eames had also said he didn’t work for his father, so there’s no real reason to expect to find him here again. More importantly, there’s no reason for Arthur to be looking for Eames. They are hardly going to become friends and there’s no excuse Arthur can give for seeking him. Even if there were, what would they do then? It’s not as though they can simply have a repeat of yesterday. Exchanging quips and running around hand-in-hand before settling down to a small feast of treats while discussing strange customs is not an experience one can simply have everyday.

Feeling rather foolish, Arthur turns to find a street that will lead out of this section. He stops dead when he hears a familiar voice call out, “Darling!” Turning, Arthur finds Eames standing in a small stall and waving cheerfully at him. Arthur starts wandering over before he realises he probably should have just ignored Eames and left. It’s too late now, or so Arthur insists to himself, and he’s more than a little pleased when Eames manages to politely shoo his customers away. 

“Arthur!” Eames says, sounding far too pleased to see him and Arthur nods coolly at Eames, too startled to work out an appropriate expression.

“Mr Eames,” Arthur says.

“Well this is a pleasant surprise,” Eames says, flashing Arthur an easy smile. “Although I suppose you’ve only come to make sure someone’s done their job properly.”

Arthur is confused until Eames holds up his hands and wriggles his fingers.

“What’s the world coming to, eh?” Eames says ruefully. “There was a time when if you asked someone to chop a hand off, off it would come no questions asked.”

“No one takes pride in their work anymore,” Arthur agrees and Eames lets out a small laugh, just a huff of breath and an upward tug of the corners of his mouth. “I must say I am surprised to see you so productively engaged. You told me you didn’t have a job.”

Eames shrugs. “More of a hobby, really.”

Arthur frowns and looks around the shop. It’s full of paintings. 

“You painted these?” Arthur asks, surprised. 

“Some,” Eames says, dismissively. He gestures to a cluster of the artworks and Arthur moves closer to study them.

“These are excellent,” Arthur says, impressed. He’s too taken aback to censor his thoughts. “They’re practically masterpieces. Some of the castle paintings aren’t- these are forgeries!”

Arthur turns to give Eames an accusing look and isn’t quite sure why Eames is beaming at him.

“Oh well spotted,” Eames says. It’s completely ridiculous for Eames to sound so pleased that Arthur has seen through his con. By rights, Eames should be frantically trying to convince Arthur not to have him arrested. Of course, that would be rather out of character for someone who chose to introduce himself to a prince of the realm by pick-pocketing him and then returning his purse while asking to be rewarded. In this scenario, it’s really Arthur’s response that is bizarre. There’s no reason for him to have to fight so hard to return Eames’s smile. “What gave the game away?”

“That painting,” Arthur says, gesturing to one of the larger outdoor scenes. Eames crouches down to study it.

“This is one of my better ones,” Eames says. He brushes his fingers lightly over the canvas, as though he could find a flaw through touch alone. It makes Arthur think of the times Eames has touched his own hands, clasping it in greeting, handing over the pastry. Eames’s fingers are rough, but he has complete control over them, and handles things gently.

“The original is in my study,” Arthur explains. Eames snorts a laugh and stands up.

“You had me worried there, pet,” he says. “You shouldn’t do that to me.”

“I worried a forger and a thief,” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. “Somehow I don’t think I’m going to lose any sleep over it.”

“You’re terribly cruel, Arthur dear,” Eames says, shaking his head and giving Arthur a wounded look. Even though he knows it’s just a joke, Arthur wants to reach out and smooth away the creases in Eames’s forehead, press his fingers to Eames lips until he smiles again. “But I am feeling generous. You may buy me some sweet bread and cheese to make up for it.”

“May I?” Arthur says, rolling his eyes, unable to stop his mouth from curling into a smile. “How kind.”

“I’m known for my unselfish nature,” Eames says. “If I weren’t so handsome, clever and witty, it would be my best feature.”

“Not your modesty?” Arthur says.

“Well that goes without saying,” Eames says, winking at Arthur. “Let me just find my brother to watch the shop and then we can resume discussing my better qualities.”

Eames disappears behind the canvas wall at the back of the shop and Arthur suddenly realises Eames must live around here. There are permanent houses just beyond the stalls where the wealthier merchants reside. Some of the buildings are quite grand, and mimic the style of the courtiers' apartments adjoining the castle. It’s quite conceivable Eames grew up in a life of comfort and luxury equivalent to any highborn. It was no wonder the cloth merchant this morning took offence at being treated like a poor commoner. Arthur wonders how often that sort of thing happens, wonders what Eames thinks of it all. 

“All set, darling,” Eames says, cheerfully reappearing, closely followed by a young man. Eames slides a hand into the crook of Arthur’s elbow and whisks him away before Eames’s brother has a chance to react to Arthur’s presence. Just as he did yesterday, Eames finds them a back passage way and pulls Arthur through it, though this time the aisle keeps them completely hidden from market goers. Eames takes a sharp turn just as Arthur spots the market once more, and they squash past some stalls before emerging outside the markets, in a small grassy area, surrounded by trees. The sounds of the market can still be heard, but it feels secluded and rather private. Arthur loves it

“I’ll just go grab the food,” Eames says, giving Arthur’s hand a quick squeeze before releasing it and disappearing back into the markets. 

It’s highly likely Eames he knows Arthur is a prince, and he has presumably taken Arthur here to keep him away from prying eyes. Which is a very sensible plan, as Arthur shouldn’t risk being seen cavorting with a commoner, and a merchant’s son at that. Certainly not for a second day in a row. The logical thing to do would be to wait here for Eames to return with food and enjoy the privacy offered by this little out of the way spot. But logic is for life up at the castle, not down here in the marketplace, and Arthur doesn’t want to just sit and wait for Eames. Even though he probably is just buying lunch, Arthur wants to know for sure. 

Waiting until he has given Eames a bit of a head start, Arthur ducks into the opening in the canvas wall and searches for Eames. He’s had a lot of practice slipping his guards, and Arthur tries to apply the skills in reverse, hoping it’s enough to let him sate his curiosity. There’s no sign of Eames, but Arthur knows Eames will be heading towards the food area and starts along that path. Once surrounded by the food stalls, it’s a simple matter of weaving quickly down the aisles until he spots Eames, standing near a sweet stall.

Arthur circles around until he can observe Eames from afar, not willing to risk coming close enough to hear anything. Eames is taking an extraordinarily long time to order the sweet bread, chatting animatedly and moving his hands to brush at the man, touching his elbow, smoothing his collar. It’s not until Eames slides a hand down to rest briefly a the man’s waist, and the man leans in that Arthur realises what is going on. Eames is _flirting_ with the sweet bread vendor.

For a moment, Arthur is too stunned to process this. Are Eames and this man involved? Is Eames in the process of courting this sweet bread salesman? Arthur studies the man closely, he seems quite taken with whatever Eames is saying, a slight flush rising above his collar, but he’s not quite comfortable enough to return Eames’s gestures. At last the man disappears behind his stall and returns with a bag, handing it to Eames, before getting the sweet breads. From what Arthur can see, it looks like the man tries to refuse Eames’s payment, but gives in when Eames says something.

Keeping hidden until Eames has made it clear which way he is travelling, Arthur follows cautiously behind as Eames heads over to find a stall selling cheeses. This time, Arthur recognises Eames’s attempts at flirting almost immediately, although the cheese vendor appears to good-naturedly rebuff Eames’s attempts. Instead he accepts Eames’s coin and hands over the food. 

The flirting puzzles Arthur. If it were simply that Eames is promised to the sweet bread vendor and they are currently courting, Arthur could understand it. Merchants presumably don’t follow the same rules of etiquette as royals and courtiers, and so flirting in such a causal manner could well be accepted practice. But that doesn’t explain why the sweet bread vendor seemed so hesitant around Eames, and it definitely doesn’t explain why Eames tried the same thing on the cheese vendor. Ariadne’s comments about the Cobol custom of courting before an arrangement is made spring to mind, but even that doesn’t fit. Arthur would have heard if the merchants organised their marriages in this strange way.

“Arthur,” Eames says, appearing at Arthur’s side. “Did you really miss me that much, darling?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He feels embarrassed to have been caught out like this, but Eames’s behaviour has him completely perplexed. He’s saved from having to respond by Eames starting to walk quickly back where they came from. When they arrive, Eames hands Arthur the food and reaches into the bag, pulling out a small blanket and spreading it out.

“Didn’t think you would want to sit on the grass, pet,” Eames explains, gesturing for Arthur to sit on the blanket. They arrange themselves and the food, sitting closely enough that their shoulders touch.

“Wasn’t I supposed to be paying for this?” Arthur says. “I’m beginning to get the impression you think I’m a pauper.”

Eames smiles and shakes his head. “Nothing of the sort. I’m simply trying to make sure you feel indebted to me.”

“And what are you hoping to get from me?” Arthur asks, and his throat feels dry. As if sensing his distress, Eames frowns and reaches over to run his hand down Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur leans into it, feeling quite soothed by the gesture, but he can’t shake the fear that Eames is about to reveal some grand plan for why he has been so nice to Arthur.

“Nothing,” Eames says softly. “I was just teasing.”

“You know I’m the prince,” Arthur blurts out because he can’t stand not knowing for certain.

“Of course,” Eames says. “I recognised you the first time I met you.”

“Then what do you want from me?” Arthur repeats, desperately. To his surprise, Eames just shrugs and looks almost abashed.

“I don’t know,” Eames says. “I saw you in the marketplace and you seemed so different. I was just curious to see how you would react if I stole and then returned your purse.”

“You don’t want money? Favour?” Arthur asks. 

“No,” Eames says. “I don’t need money or favour. You know my father, you’ve seen our business. I think I was just bored.”

“And now?” Arthur asked. 

“You came to visit me,” Eames reminds him. “I should be asking you the same question.”

“I don’t know, either,” Arthur admits. It’s a strange thing to say. Everything Arthur does is quite deliberate, careful and measured decisions preceding every action. He doesn’t really want to look to closely at what he is doing with Eames, so he adds, lightly, “But it probably has something to do with the free food.”

“I knew it,” Eames says. “Let’s just hope I got enough to keep you here for a while.”

Arthur looks down at the sweet breads and cheeses. He pulls out his dagger and gamely slices a piece of cheese and eats it. He’s never eaten so informally before, and the flavour of the cheese is surprisingly intense when eaten without bread or biscuit to soften it.

“Darling you don’t need to look so horrified,” Eames says, laughing and follow suit, eating the cheese more easily than Arthur had managed. It’s a little embarrassing to realise he’s made a face without realising it, but there’s something about being around Eames that seems to leave Arthur unable to control himself.

“This is terribly uncivilised,” Arthur says, but he’s unable to sound truly disgusted.

“I know,” Eames says, sounding pleased. He bumps his shoulder against Arthur, just a soft touch of camaraderie. “Isn’t it marvellous? Don’t you get sick of playing by the rules all the time?”

Arthur suddenly feels very tired, as though the weight of carrying around civilisation has become altogether too much for him to handle. He wriggles down the blanket until he can lie down, pleased when Eames follows suit, turning on his side so he can look at Arthur.

“Robert just got married,” Arthur says. He’s staring up at the sky, patches of blue clear amongst fluffy white clouds, so he can’t see Eames’s reaction. When Eames says nothing, Arthur takes that as permission to continue with his non sequitur. “Nothing has been put in place yet, but it won’t be long until I am too.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Eames asks softly.

“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur says. “They’ll find a suitable highborn lady to bring wealth and social connections to the family, and if I’m lucky, it’ll be a courtier and we can just stay in the castle.”

“And you don’t want to marry a highborn lady,” Eames says. Arthur knows Eames is making assumptions about Arthur, presuming Arthur must have a preference for men and this is what is upsetting him about being married off. It’s close enough to the truth that Arthur doesn’t mind, and it’s a safer option than explaining Arthur doesn’t have a preference at all. So Arthur lets his lack of response confirm things for Eames.

“What about you?” Arthur asks. “You’re far too old to still be single.”

“My father has very high standards,” Eames says. Arthur glances over, catching Eames rolling his eyes. “There’s six of us who have reach marriageability and yet we’re all still unwed.”

“Six!” Arthur repeats, shocked. He’s never heard of a family let that many children reach marriageable age and yet remain dependents. “I can see why your father would have high standards, he must be the wealthiest merchant in Proclus, but surely that means any family he wants to join with would be happy to do so.”

“No,” Eames says. “He’s determined to marry us off to highborns.”

Arthur rolls over to face Eames properly. “No wonder you are all still single, then.”

Eames laughs. “Precisely. It works in my favour, though, I have no interest in being married off to some stuffy highborn and spending my days living a wholesome, crime-free life.”

“Are there many families that think the same way as your father?” Arthur asks. He’s never heard of families wanting to marry out of their class structure, it would suit neither party so there’s no reason it would ever come up. But merchants are a strange breed, certainly not highborn, but nor do they really fit in with the commoners.

“Given that there are at least half a dozen merchant families who are wealthier than some of the highborns, I can’t imagine my father is alone in resenting that we are kept separate from their society,” Eames says. He flops back and tucks his hands under his head, the action revealing his tattooed arms once more. Arthur tries not to get too distracted by them. “Planning on squashing the peasant rebellion before it can begin?”

“Somebody has to save the country,” Arthur says absently, thinking over the incident Dom dealt with earlier, realising they aren’t just looking at an issue regarding socially accepted codes of conduct. He thinks about Eames’s father and his six unmarried children, and then suddenly Arthur is thinking about Eames flirting with the vendors, and Eames laughing at Arthur’s jests. He thinks about his own impossible to solve problem and slowly, an idea starts to form.


	3. The Proposal

Marrying Eames might be the most insane plan Arthur has ever come up with. Admittedly his unofficial role as advisor and researcher to Dom and other council members, Arthur has always tended towards safe, logical and reasonably conservative solutions. There’s not much competition for craziest idea, but this one is quite wild. When Arthur had hoped a visit to the market would present his mind with a solution to his problem, marrying Eames was not within the realm of things he could ever have imagined.

For as far back as people can remember, marriage has been an essential tool to bring stability, safety, and progress to Proclus. Productive marriages continue on family lines and secure long term alliances, while unproductive marriages bring opportunities for connections, wealth and support for productively married family members. This is true for the high and the low born alike. Each of these classes has their own roles and responsibilities to fulfil for the good of all, and there is no shame in being born low, nor is there pride in being born high; it just is. Both are important, and equally, it is necessary not to confuse the positions each class holds in society. Highborns manage the country and keep Proclus safe from its many neighbours. Lowborn must work the land and keep the country supplied with food and other essential goods. To mix these roles would risk bringing chaos to the land.

Yet Arthur has a feeling that if he had decided to try a marry a lowborn, it would be more acceptable than marrying a merchant.

The marketplace’s thriving businesses are a sign of Proclus’s success under King Marnack’s rule. The alliances with their neighbouring that have been secured through the marriage of Arthur’s older siblings have lead to a booming trade industry and luxuries both domestic and exotic seem to abound in Proclus. But the merchants who are bringing in these foreign goods and finding buyers for local wares are not essential to Proclus. People may enjoy their services, but the country does not depend upon them. The work they do serves themselves first and foremost, and the fact that they spend so much time with foreigners makes people at times suspicious of them. Neither high nor low born citizens of Proclus feel comfortable making any sort of social connection with the merchants, and merchants do not fit in with either group.

When Arthur thinks this through, it almost makes his plan sound quite sensible. The merchants are growing steadily wealthier, and with money comes the ability and desire to gain power. If Arthur can manage to bring the merchants into the fold of the upper class, it should stem any growing resentments before they can become a problem. Whether his marriage to Eames alone will be enough to do this, Arthur doesn’t know. Nor can he work out if his father can be convinced of the merits of this plan. 

There’s also a lingering feeling that this plan only sounds good to Arthur because of the easy smiles he shared with Eames, and the warmth he felt when he made Eames laugh. He cannot make this kind of decision based on a half-formed desire to study Eames’s tattoos. 

Normally when Arthur fears his judgement may be clouded, or he is being asked to make a decision without all of the information he needs, he would go to see Dom. But there’s no real reason why Arthur can’t just marry a well connected highborn lady and be done with it, and he dreads being told that following that path would be simpler and better for everyone. This is the only solution Arthur can think of that doesn’t make him feel nauseous and he can’t give it up just for the sake of convention. He can’t go to see Dom, but, Arthur realises, he can talk to Ariadne. His little sister has never been his first port of call for advice, but her views on marriage will make he receptive to discussing nonconventional marriage partners, and perhaps it is high time Arthur started to acknowledge she isn’t a little girl any more.

 

“What if I were to tell you I want to marry the son of a merchant?” Arthur asks. It’s hard to tell if the idea sounds more or less absurd when spoken out loud. Ariadne seems to be taking the idea quite seriously, giving Arthur a carefully considered look.

“Arthur,” Ariadne says, her voice far more solemn than Arthur ever thinks he’s heard her sound. She takes a step closer to him and grabs one of his hands, squeezing it firmly. “I will support you no matter who you wish to be with.”

Arthur’s not quite sure what to say in response to this. He’s uncomfortably aware Ariadne has made some kind of leap about the situation. Based on their earlier conversations about marriage, he has a sinking feeling she thinks he is in love with Eames. Or at least, in love with some unspecified merchant’s son. It feels impossible to try and tell her the truth, though. He had come close to telling her that morning, but when she had misunderstood him and asked if he had a preference, it made Arthur aware she never really could understand him. Which means there’s no way she would be able to accept the reasoning behind his plan to marry Eames. 

Even if Ariadne truly does believe people can fall in love before they have sex, that doesn’t mean she sees sex and love as wholly separate things. Part of Arthur’s plan hinges on the fact that he thinks Eames would be agreeable to having affairs. It’s a perfectly logical plan: Arthur doesn’t want to have sex, Eames will, and if he is discreet and restricts his extra-marital activities to men, there’s no reason anyone will ever know. Ariadne would be horrified and disappointed by this, so Arthur cannot tell her. 

“Is it a feasible option, though?” Arthur asks, deciding that ignoring Ariadne’s comment is the safest course of action. Ariadne lets go of his hand and puts it on her hip. Thankfully, her intense expression has been replaced by a more neutral thoughtful look.

“It’s not ideal,” Ariadne says. “But I don’t think it’s impossible. I presume you have some kind of plan?”

“More of an angle than a plan,” Arthur says. “There’s some developing civil unrest between the merchants and the highborns. Some of our merchants are significantly wealthier than most of our courtiers and are starting to demand they are treated as equals.”

Ariadne cocks her head. “Well I can see why the merchants might accept you marrying into their social class, but what about the reverse?”

“No highborn would ever marry a merchant until they knew it would not damage their social standing, no matter what the material benefits,” Arthur says. “My marriage would establish a sense of respectability for this type of cross-class union.”

“And you have a merchant’s son in mind?” Ariadne asks, with a small, knowing smile.

“Yes,” Arthur admits, but quickly adds, “It has to be an unproductive marriage or our parents would never agree to it, and I happened to meet the son of a very wealthy merchant who gave the impression he would be amenable to the idea.”

Ariadne looks so pleased with Arthur, it makes him feel guilty, even though he hasn’t said anything to try and mislead her. Although he’s not sure how much he has exaggerated Eames’s agreeability to the scheme in his mind. When they first met, Eames had told Arthur if he came back for Eames’s hand in marriage, he could have it, which is hardly a binding contract. But Eames would surely not have joked about the matter if he found the idea repulsive. At the very least, he ought to be open to the suggestion. Eames’s objections to marrying a highborn came from a fear of being bored, and Arthur knows Eames finds him enjoyable company. He certainly wouldn’t lock Eames up in the castle to waste away. There is also the crime issue, but Arthur doesn’t object to Eames’s forgery, and as far as he can tell the pick-pocketing was just for show.

“I don’t want to get your hopes up,” Ariadne says slowly, her expression sobering. “But it’s not impossible. Not if we can get Dom on side to sell the idea to Father.”

Arthur nods. “That’s what I was thinking,” he says. He gives Ariadne a small, sly smile. “Do you think fraternal affection will be enough to convince him, or will we need to dig up some blackmail material?”

To his surprise, Ariadne does not smirk back at Arthur. “He might not understand why you want to do this.”

“Because he’s a merchant, or because he’s a man?” Arthur asks, realising too late that he’s making it sound like the plan is based around Arthur’s desire to marry Eames specifically. It worries him that he’s not even sure if the plan is more about Eames in particular, than the fact that he is the son of a merchant. That part of Arthur’s plan is fairly solid, but he’s unsure how much his decision for Eames to be this man is based on the social stability angle he can use to sell the idea to his father, and how much is based on the way Eames laughs and drags him through secret passages and the easy way they can fall into conversation. 

“Because he’s not a highborn lady,” Ariadne says, sounding almost apologetic. She adds quickly, “But once he realises why you wish to marry into the merchant class, he’ll understand why it must be an unproductive marriage.”

For a moment, frustration rises up in Arthur. He can accept that the public must be appeased, he knows his responsibilities to them. But Dom is his brother. He shouldn’t have to use political strategies to justify who he wants to marry. If only in the privacy of their quarters, Arthur wishes they could just be open and honest with each other. It’s unfair of him to think this, Arthur knows. Dom, Ariadne and Arthur are uncommonly close and far freer with each other than most siblings, extraordinarily so for royalty. The heart of the problem lies not in their bond, but in the strangeness of Arthur’s dread of marriage and the marriage bed. Arthur struggles to understand his aversion enough himself and he lives with it. It would be unfair for him to expect Dom to comprehend it. Even Ariadne who appears to have stranger views than himself does not really get what is motivating Arthur to seek out this strange marriage. 

“The issue will be trying to explain the advantages of marrying into a merchant family,” Arthur says, pleased to find his voice comes out evenly, no trace of irritation. “Rather than just following a more traditional route.”

“Dom takes the safety and stability of the country seriously,” Ariadne says. “He’s going to be king one day, and if you push the risk of civil unrest angle, he should be able to cope with the deviation from the usual marriage practices.”

Arthur’s mind snags on the word ‘angle’. Is there genuinely a risk that the merchants will cause problems, serious problems for Proclus if their wealth does not bring them status?

“Am I doing what’s best for our people?” Arthur asks, allowing a hint of anxiety to creep into his voice. “Do you think the merchants actually pose a threat?”

Ariadne frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “I don’t know,” she admits. “Some of them aren’t happy to be excluded from high society, or are at least unhappy that some of the highborns treat them as less than servants.”

“But?” Arthur prompts. Ariadne gives Arthur an apologetic look.

“I think some of them are happy to be kept out of the affairs of the court,” Ariadne says. She shrugs. “I don’t know which there is more of, and I don’t know if the resentment is going to grow or just fade out.”

“Based on what I have observed, the resentment seems to be growing,” Arthur says. “But if it’s not, do you think having me marrying a merchant could cause problems amongst the merchant class?”

“No,” Ariadne says quickly, but then she pauses and chews briefly on her lip. “No,” she says again, more decisively this time. “Even if there’s no trouble brewing, I can’t see how you marrying a merchant’s son would upset them.”

Arthur nodded before taking a deep breath and asking the question he hadn’t wanted to think about. “Would letting the merchant class become part of highborn society be opening us up to problems in the future? If they marry courtiers, or well-connected highborns, it means they would have a voice in the way we run the country, they could start to make demands for things we cannot give them.”

“No matter what else, they are citizens of Proclus,” Ariadne says firmly. “They have businesses and families here, they aren’t going to be making demands of Father or Dom that would go against the interests of the country.”

Arthur softens, tensions he hadn’t noticed releasing in relief. “True.”

“Arthur,” Ariadne says, reaching out to touch Arthur’s shoulder. She makes eye contact and just looks at him for a moment. “Marrying who you want to marry isn’t going to hurt the country.”

“We’re royalty, the people’s needs must come before our own,” Arthur says. It is a quote from their mother, but he means it just as sincerely now as when he was first taught to understand what being royal meant. 

“It doesn’t mean we don’t have needs,” Ariadne says. She withdraws her hand and looks away. “And it doesn’t mean we must suffer needlessly for our people.”

“Needlessly, no,” Arthur agrees, guilt rising up once more inside him. He tries to push it down once more. His marriage was never going to bring more to the family than social connections and money, it’s not as though he was going to secure any important alliances. To marry a highborn lady and produce children with her would surely count as needlessly suffering, wouldn’t it?

“We didn’t chose to be royal,” Ariadne says.

“No one has a say which life they will be born into,” Arthur says. “The world would fall apart if we decided to simply protest our situations. We have to work with what we have. And we have great privileges, Ari. And with those privileges come responsibilities.”

“Do they come at the cost of our own happiness?” Ariadne says. Arthur frowns, shocked and confused by the pain in her voice. He steps forward and wraps his arm loosely around her waist.

“Ari? Are you okay?” Arthur asks. Ariadne looks at him, her eyes damp, but a rueful grin on her lips. 

“I’m fine,” Ariadne says, rubbing the palm of her hand roughly over her eyes. “I’m just- Angry, I guess. I hate feeling helpless and out of control.”

Suddenly it clicks for Arthur what’s wrong with Ariadne. “Oh,” he says. “I just brought the deadline forward for your wedding.”

“No,” Ariadne protests. “Well, you did, but it’s not like it could be put off forever, and I _am_ glad that you’ve found a way to be with the right person for you.”

“We’ll find the right person for you, too,” Arthur says, and immediately hates himself for it. To his relief, Ariadne just shakes her head and smiles at him.

“I think I have a plan of my own brewing,” Ariadne says. 

“What-“ Arthur starts to say.

“It’s not something I can share yet,” Ariadne says. “Go and talk to Dom, I’ll tell you my plan as soon as I am able to.”

Arthur nods slowly, studying Ariadne for signs that she was hiding a deeper upset. Once he is satisfied she is okay, he lets her go and shelves his interrogation of her for later. He needs to deal with his own problem first.

 

A servant is leaving Dom and Mal’s chambers as Arthur arrives, leaving the door open. As Arthur goes to enter, Dom’s strained voice stops him in his path. Arthur has never been prone to eavesdropping, but Dom’s words are strange enough to make him curious. For too long, Mal has been sequestered in her chambers with no real explanation given, nothing more than vague excuses offered before Dom clumsily changed the subject.

“Mal, darling, can’t you just come and pretend for an evening?” Dom asks. He sounds tired and anxious, the usual layers of affection almost completely stripped away. From early on in their courting, Dom’s admiration and fondness for Mal were obvious to everyone who knew him, and Arthur finds it strangely upsetting to have that love overshadowed by something else.

“There is no point,” Mal says huffily. Being the first born daughter of the king of the wealthiest, strongest and most successful country in the realm had left Mal entitled to a significant degree of haughtiness. She did not suffer fools lightly, but to those she deemed worthy of her time and affection, Mal was charming, graceful and a pleasure to be around. It took longer for Mal to fall for Dom, but once she did, Mal had endless patience and favour to bestow upon him. Even when she is irritated with him, Arthur has never known Mal to speak to Dom without at least a degree of indulgence.

“My family hasn’t seen you for a long time,” Dom says. It almost sounds like he is pleading with her. “They miss you, and worry about you.”

“They do not,” Mal retorted. “They aren’t real.”

“I know it feels like that, Mal,” Dom says. “But once you go out there and see them, talk to them, you’ll know the difference.”

“I will not,” Mal says decisively. There’s a noise that might be Dom sighing, followed by the sound of James crying. Arthur listens as someone walks around and eventually the cries quieten down.

“Give him a cuddle,” Dom says. “He needs his mother.”

“You cannot manipulate me like this,” Mal snaps. “I am not his mother; that is not my baby.”

There’s more sounds of someone walking around and too late Arthur realises someone is about to head towards the door of the chambers. Knowing he cannot make it out of sight before whoever it is emerges, Arthur hurries a little way up the corridor and then starts walking briskly back. Dom opens the door just before Arthur reaches it.

“Dom!” Arthur says, trying to sound startled. Dom is far too distracted to notice the ruse.

“Arthur,” Dom says, looking at Arthur in surprise. 

“Is everything okay?” Arthur asks. Dom looks strained enough to warrant the question.

Dom shrugs. “I had hoped Mal might be feeling well enough for dinner, but she’s still quite poorly.”

“Do the physicians know what’s wrong?” Arthur asks.

“It’s just the strain of having a child,” Dom says. “Mal’s people are not as hardy as ours and James’s birth was rough on her. She should be better soon. Were you coming to see me?”

The bizarre and shocking conversation Arthur had overhead had made Arthur forget the purpose of his visit. As it is, he doesn’t feel he can bring it up, not right then.

“Just looking for Yusuf,” Arthur lies. Dom nods.

“I think he’s down in his workroom,” Dom says. “I’ll walk with you there, I need to discuss how James’s naming day celebration is coming along.”

 

Dom stays with Arthur right until they reach Yusuf’s workroom, asking logical questions and making sensible suggestions. If it weren’t for the conversation he had overheard and the way Dom had looked coming out of his chambers, Arthur would have believed Dom was perfectly fine and had nothing on his mind beyond the practicalities surrounding the first public appearance of the future king. As it is, Arthur is growing worried at how long Dom has been stressed about Mal. He’s clearly a much better actor than he lets on.

“Yusuf,” Dom says. Yusuf puts down the book he was writing in and gives Dom his attention. “Arthur needed to see you. I’ll leave you two alone. If you need me, I’ll be in my study.”

Dom turns and leaves, walking briskly but not urgently. 

“Arthur?” Yusuf prompts. Arthur sits down on the bench across the room from Yusuf.

“I suppose it’s too much to ask that you address me properly,” Arthur says, realising he hasn’t come up with an excuse to see Yusuf. He’s not sure how much of what is going on between Dom and Mal Yusuf already knows. It’s likely he knows something is wrong, but Arthur doesn’t feel comfortable revealing what he just overheard. It’s too intensely private, too shocking, even for Yusuf. Even for Arthur, when it comes down to it. Until he’s had time to try and process what it could mean, Arthur doesn’t feel he can tell anyone. He has no idea what it means and it could too easily been misunderstood. Without further information, Arthur really just needs to put it aside and trust Dom will tell him more when he is able to.

Yusuf rolls his eyes. “You didn’t come all the way down here to pretend you care about me acting like a proper servant around you.”

“No,” Arthur agrees, heaving a put upon sigh. “It’s too late to hope for miracles, I’ve accepted that.”

“Then what is it?” Yusuf asks. He gestures to the book he was writing in. “Some of us were actually working around here and would like to go back to it.”

“I didn’t really need to see you,” Arthur admits.

“Great,” Yusuf says, rolling his eyes. “Then why did Dom drop you off down here? I’m not your nanny.”

“Thank heavens,” Arthur says. “I wanted to talk to Dom about something, but he seemed stressed so I said I was looking for you.”

“This is just like when we were ten and I was always your scape goat,” Yusuf grumbles good-naturedly. “So what did you want to talk to Dom about?”

“You are far too interested in gossip,” Arthur says. “Especially for a servant who avoids other servants. If you want to hear some proper gossip, you need to spend time with the rest of the staff.”

“Every time I run into another servant, I seem to get roped into doing work,” Yusuf says, shuddering.

“How terrible for you,” Arthur says. “Imagine that - a servant who has to do work.”

Yusuf makes a rude gesture at Arthur. “You do realise that now you’ve described it as gossip and refused to tell me what you wanted Dom for I actually care about it? I can only presume it was something horribly embarrassing. Maybe a rash you don’t want to explain to the physicians how you got,” Yusuf says, glancing pointedly down into his lap.

“Suddenly I find myself grateful that you don’t talk to other servants,” Arthur says. He considers Yusuf for a moment and realises he would make a good sounding board for his marrying Eames idea. Yusuf is comfortable enough with Arthur to be blunt, and savvy enough that he should be able to point out any huge problems Arthur has overlooked. “Do you know any of the merchants?”

“I’m Dom’s valet,” Yusuf says. “I don’t get sent into the marketplace to run errands.”

“Some of them are growing unhappy with the highborns,” Arthur says. “They’re sick of being looked down on and think they deserve to be part of high society.”

“There would be plenty who are wealthy enough,” Yusuf says. “But there’s no way the courtiers would ever accept them, it would be social suicide.”

“Not if I were to marry one of them,” Arthur says. Yusuf went completely still and gave Arthur a long and careful look.

“Marry one of them?” Yusuf repeated, his voice sounding strange. “On a first come, first served basis?”

“No,” Arthur admits, not sure how to explain Eames to Yusuf. “I have one in mind. A merchant’s son - an unproductive marriage would be easier for the highborns to swallow, and the merchant is desperate enough to marry his children into the upper class that he would agree to it. I need to talk to Dom about it, see if he thinks it’s a sound idea. I’ll need his support if I’m to convince Father.”

“And what does your merchant’s son think of the idea?” Yusuf asks carefully. 

“I haven’t discussed it with him yet,” Arthur says, frowning. Marriage negotiations always start within a family first, before any offers are made.

“You need to know if he will agree to it before you get anyone else involved,” Yusuf says, sounding surprisingly firm. “He deserves to know what hopes you are harbouring for your future, and he may have some ideas on how to convince your family to accept the arrangement.”

Arthur concedes Yusuf has a point. Eames will need to be his closest ally and it could prove useful having him onside sooner rather than later.

 

Arthur manages to find Eames’s stall so quickly that he wonders if maybe the marketplace is showing her support for Arthur’s plan. The thought is utterly irrational of course, but so are the nerves twisting Arthur’s stomach, and so Arthur allows himself to take comfort in it. It’s growing late, the shops are all being packed up and there’s no customer’s in sight. Eames notices Arthur almost immediately.

“Arthur?” Eames says, sounding startled and pleased and confused all at once. He pulls down the canvas front on his stall and walks over to Arthur.

“Eames,” Arthur says, irritated to find his voice isn’t quite as steady as he’d intended. 

“Is everything okay?” Eames asks, leaning in to Arthur, his voice low and more serious than Arthur could imagine him sounding.

“I’m fine,” Arthur assures him quickly. He glances around at the other vendors, some of whom have started to take notice. Despite the deliberately inconspicuous way he’d dressed, Arthur knows it’s only a matter of time before someone recognises him. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

Eames studies Arthur’s face, his head slightly tilted, as though the new angle might reveal something previously hidden about Arthur. 

“Yes, of course,” Eames says, at last. He had spent only moments scrutinising Arthur, but the lateness of the day and the new seriousness that had come over Eames made the whole experience seem much longer to Arthur. There is something very intense about being considered by Eames, something that made Arthur feel almost uncomfortable, but not in an unpleasant way. It's a strange feeling.

Casually, Eames rests a hand on Arthur’s back and steers him down the street until they reach a more permanent building. It isn’t until Eames leads Arthur into a decadently decorated sitting room that Arthur realises he must be in Eames’s home. He curses himself for being so distracted by the warmth of Eames’s hand on his back; it would have been useful to know how to get back here.

“We can talk safely here,” Eames says, once the door to the room is closed. “This is one of my rooms, and the servants know not to come poking around in here.”

“You have servants?” Arthur blurts out without thinking, taken aback by the idea of Eames’s family having servants. It’s not that Arthur doubts they could afford them, it just seems so out of place. Arthur associates having servants with being a highborn, and lowborns with being servants or workers. It’s hard to work out where merchants fit in with that system.

Eames grimaces. “Not really. Father insists we refer to them as such, but really we have a few wives of farmers and smiths who want to make some extra coin. No respectable servant would agree to work for a merchant family.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise,” Eames says, smiling and gesturing around the room. “I prefer it like this.”

Glancing around, Arthur realises that what he has initially presumed to be draped cloths and quirky vases are actually just cups and Eames’s clothes strewn haphazardly around the room. Arthur’s never sat in mess like this before, and he’s not sure he likes it, although seeing the flowing style clothes Eames favours lying across the backs of his couches feels almost intimate.

“Why wouldn’t you,” Arthur says dryly, picking up a mug and is relieved to find it is perfectly clean.

Eames grins at him. “Try to contain your jealousy, pet. Clean rooms are just a burden you must bear.”

“The curse of being born royal,” Arthur says. He means the comment as a joke but all he can think about is the position being a prince has put him in, the position he has come here to try and escape from.

“Yeah?” Eames says softly, giving Arthur an encouraging look.

Arthur sighs, unsure how to begin. “I’m the son of the king, I must marry productively.”

“And you don’t want to,” Eames fills in. 

“Your father wants you to marry a highborn,” Arthur says, in lieu of answering him.

“Arthur, what are you-“ Eames says, falling silent when Arthur shakes his head at him.

“The merchants demanding to be accepted into highborn society need to be appeased,” Arthur says. “It will get out of hand before too long. No highborn will risk the stigma of marrying beneath their class-"

“But it will become practically fashionable if one of the royals does it,” Eames finishes for him. He’s staring at Arthur. It makes Arthur nervous, unable to work out what Eames might be thinking.

“Exactly,” Arthur says.

“And you want to be the royal who does it,” Eames says, his voice sounding too even, to deliberate. “You want to marry me.”

“Yes,” Arthur says.

“You came down here tonight, to ask me to marry you,” Eames says.

“I came down to put forth the idea,” Arthur says. 

“Darling, you met me _yesterday_ ,” Eames says. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

Arthur had foreseen the possibility of Eames not believing him and so he draws out of his purse the signet ring he had received when he reached marriageability. It’s an old-fashioned gesture, but the astonished look on Eames’s face tells Arthur he understands it.

“You can’t wear it,” Arthur warns. “Not until our parents have finished negotiations. 

“You’re serious,” Eames says. He stares at the ring, turning it around in his hand. It’s a fairly slim gold ring, with a solid oblong face. The Proclus royal symbol is imprinted neatly on top, and two small rubies decorate each side. Looking at it in Eames’s fingers, Arthur realises it is going to be too small for Eames to wear. It’s possibly too small for Arthur to wear now as well. He’s not one for jewellery, so it’s been tucked away since it was first presented to him at sixteen. He’ll have to find a chain or something for Eames to wear it on. 

“Yes,” Arthur says.

“You want to marry me?” Eames says.

“I do,” Arthur confirms.

“Because you are worried some merchants might start getting mouthy?” Eames asks, a tinge of amusement entering his voice.

“I can’t stand being spoken to rudely,” Arthur says, feeling relieved Eames has relaxed again. There was no guarantee Eames would go along with the plan, of course, but Arthur had presumed Eames would be fairly open to discussing the possibility of it. Until now Eames had seemed almost concerned by the suggestion.

“This may be the least romantic proposal I’ve received all week,” Eames says.

“Proposals aren’t meant to be romantic,” Arthur replies automatically. And then he stops and studies Eames. “How many other proposals have you received this week?”

Eames flashes Arthur a wicked grin. It makes his insides soften far more than any cheeky smile has the right to do. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. “I’ll need a list of names so I can scare them off.”

A look of disbelief comes across Eames’s face. Arthur hopes he is not imagining the fondness that softens it. “To be honest, right now the only proposal I can think about is the one I just received from His Royal Highness Prince Arthur, son of the king, protector of the realm, and very, very royal.”

“Is that a problem?” Arthur asks, concerned. Being royal is just a fact of life to Arthur; it’s easy to forget that the idea might be unappealing to others. The thought that this might be what stops Eames from accepting him makes Arthur feel slightly nauseous. There’s nothing he can do to change his status.

“No,” Eames says quickly. “Just extremely unexpected.”

“Good,” Arthur says. Eames gives him a soft reassuring smile before glancing down at the ring.

“I was there when you got this,” Eames says quietly. 

“Oh?”

“My father drags us to every event open to the public,” Eames says. “I’ve known who Prince Arthur was from the moment your birth was announced. We light candles for you and your family on high holidays, and eat cake on your birthdays.”

“I don’t even know how old you are,” Arthur admits, realising the point Eames is trying to make. To him, Eames is essentially a stranger, they have no social connections, no shared history. He knows next to nothing about the man he is asking to marry him. “You have me at a disadvantage there.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Eames says, shaking his head and reaching out for Arthur’s hand. “My father gave me a sip of whisky the day Prince Arthur was born, but I had no idea who you were until yesterday.”

“You said you recognised me as soon as you saw me,” Arthur says, feeling himself grow cold. If Eames has been playing him all along, if this is just a long con…

“I did,” Eames says, his grip tightening slightly around Arthur’s hand, just enough to make Arthur stop trying to withdraw it. “I hate to break it to you, pet, but Arthur is not nearly as sophisticated as his royal counterpart.”

“You’re not getting sentimental on me, are you?” Arthur says, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust, unsure how to respond to Eames’s comment. He knows he presents differently in public, it would be impossible to do otherwise, but Arthur doesn’t feel any different when he does don his full regalia. 

Eames shrugs. “You came all the way down here to propose, sentiment would seem to be the appropriate response.”

“If you say so,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. Then he realises Eames hasn’t actually agreed to marrying him. Has not, in fact, put forward any opinions or thoughts on the idea, beyond general disbelief. “Are you saying yes, then?”

Eames hesitates and Arthur’s stomach turns. “I don’t know,” Eames says. “It’s a mad idea.”

“It’s not that unreasonable,” Arthur says. “It would be an unproductive marriage, so it would be far less shocking, and Father is obsessed with stability, the mere hint of civil unrest should be enough to convince him.”

“That’s not that part I was thinking about,” Eames says. “If you don’t count a few shared meals and minor instance of thievery, we’re complete strangers. This is a big risk you want to take.”

“I can’t let my family arrange my marriage for me,” Arthur says, hating how raw his voice sounds.

Eames gives Arthur a long look. “Let me think about it.”

“Of course,” Arthur agrees automatically. It’s not an unreasonable request, but Arthur hates to be left in this state of not knowing. He can’t plan, can’t think about how to move forward. And this is too big, too important for Arthur to take comfort in thinking through possibilities and making contingency plans. “When will you give me your answer?”

“Tomorrow,” Eames says decisively. Arthur is relieved. There would be no point dragging it out any longer; he cannot start to court Eames until their families have negotiated, nor can he risk spending time with Eames with no official agreement between them. “Let me sleep on it.”

“I might not be able to come down tomorrow,” Arthur says, for the first time sincerely hating the responsibilities he has taken on over the years to keep himself occupied. To his surprise, Eames gives him a mischievous smile at this.

“Buy something expensive,” Eames says. “And I’ll deliver it.”

Arthur laughs, partly because he is relieved the tension has broken once more. “Can I trust you to select something tasteful?” Arthur asks, enjoying the way Eames’s eyes lit up. “Or at the very least, discreet?”

“On my honour,” Eames says, grinning at him.

“The honour of a thief and a forger,” Arthur says. “Why am I not more relieved?”

“Trust me,” Eames says, and Arthur just nods, not sure exactly what he is trusting Eames with. Eames releases his hand, which Arthur takes as a sign that it’s time for him to leave. They stand and walk back out to the marketplace, not talking, although the silence feels very loud to Arthur. When they arrive back at Eames’s stall, Eames stops and turns to look at Arthur. 

“Until tomorrow,” Arthur says, unable to keep his voice from sounding stiff. 

“Until tomorrow,” Eames says far more softly. And then he leans in and presses a small kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth. All Arthur can do is watch as Eames starts to walk back towards his home, staring after him until long past when he can no longer see Eames.


	4. The Agreement

“The families are ready for a productive alliance, but with seven sons, the Halcotts are too concerned about splitting up their inheritance,” Queen Alexandra is saying. Arthur was not paying attention to the start of the conversation, so he takes a bite of his egg and leaves Dom and his father to respond. Normally, Arthur treats his mother’s breakfast conversation as one of his duties, a chance to catch up on the goings on in society, tucking away bits of information to have on hand when advising Dom about court matters. But Arthur did not sleep well the night before and is struggling to keep this fact from his family. 

For Arthur, the business of sleeping is something he simply has to get on with. He rises early and makes a point of retiring at a reasonable hour unless his presence is required. Part of Arthur’s daily routine includes vigorous exercise, and he only drinks socially, finding wine makes him sleep more heavily but far less restfully. Returning home from the marketplace last night, Arthur had gone through the motions of his evening routine, gratefully allowing Ariadne to steer the dinner conversation and then disappeared into his chambers. Yusuf had appeared briefly to see how the visit to Eames had gone, accepting Arthur’s brusque answer and dismissal without complaint. 

Once alone, sleep had eluded Arthur and he found he could not distract himself. Until he has Eames’s answer, Arthur has no idea what path the rest of his life will take. His mind had circled around possibilities, contingency plans and the surprisingly distressing thought of hearing Eames turn him down.To Arthur, the plan was more than he had ever hoped for. But maybe Eames was happy his father’s aspirations allowed him to stay single, or had already worked out a plan for his marriage. 

By the time morning came, Arthur had only managed a fitful doze.

“Arthur?” Dom is looking at Arthur in concern and Arthur frantically tries to work out what part of the conversation he has missed.

“Sorry,” Arthur says at last. “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I hope you aren’t coming down with anything,” his mother says, frowning at him. “We need a full showing for James’s naming day, and if you’ve caught what Mal has, you could be down for weeks.”

“The physician said Mal was fine,” King Marnack says dismissively. “Just suffering from the strain of childbirth. She’s a delicate creature.”

“Try to emphasise the importance of her attending her son’s naming day,” Queen Alexandria says to Dom. Neither of his parents seem to notice Dom’s response to their condescension. His hands tightening around his cutlery, face paling. 

“I think I have mice in my room,” Arthur says quickly. “I heard scrabbling all night, that’s what kept me up.”

“See Peters,” his mother says. “He might have a cat to lend you.”

Arthur grimaces inwardly, but his regret is softened by the grateful look Dom sends him.

 

Arthur’s mother has left him with a pile of arrangements to make for James’s naming day celebrations, and between this and the work he didn’t do yesterday, he can’t justify taking the morning off to fret. No matter what he tries, though, Arthur can’t concentrate. It’s a relief when Ariadne arrives halfway through the morning.

“Hey,” Ariadne says softly. She slouches in the chair opposite Arthur and begins to look through the piles of paper on Arthur’s desk.

“Hi,” Arthur replies. He slides a seating chart towards Ariadne. “I need to get two hundred and forty people to fit comfortably in a space designed for two hundred.”

Ariadne looks over the plan and makes a thoughtful noise. “Have you considered offending forty courtiers?”

“This is the future king’s naming day,” Arthur says, “It’s going to take a lot more than a few insults to stop any of the courtiers from attending. The guards arrested Lord Bradbury’s son a few weeks ago and the very next day he sent his acceptance along with an expensive pre-celebration day gift.”

“I suppose poisoning the irritating ones is off the table,” Ariadne says, adding quickly, “Nothing that would kill them of course. Just something to incapacitate them for a while. I think Yusuf has something like that.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Arthur says dryly. “If all else fails, I suppose there’s always Robert’s wedding sausages.” They share a grimace and then lapse into silence.

“I think this should work,” Ariadne says, putting down her pencil and handing back the plan to Arthur. He glances down at it, pleasantly surprised. Ariadne has designed an elegant solution to their problem, freeing up space for close to two hundred and fifty guests. “Yusuf said you went to see your merchant last night.”

Arthur stiffens, but keeps his voice even as he replies, “I did.” He wonders if he should correct her. Tell her Eames isn’t his merchant, isn’t his anything, might never consent to belong in any sense to Arthur.

“But he didn’t give you an answer,” Ariadne says, curiosity clear in her voice, although she keeps her eyes cast down on the pencil she starts fiddling with.

“No,” Arthur says. “He asked to think on it overnight.”

“Marrying into the royal family is a big decision,” Ariadne says. “Had you talked about it with him before?”

“I only met him two days ago, Ari,” Arthur says. Ariadne looks up, startled.

“You met him two days ago?” she repeats. “And you’ve asked him to marry you?”

Objectively, Arthur can see how someone might think he’s made a rash decision. Under normal circumstances, he would agree completely that two days is far too short a time to get to know someone and decide they would be a suitable match. Not when the entirety of both families are complete strangers and your lives have no real overlap. But for the first time, getting married doesn’t make Arthur feel scared and sick and guilty.

“I had to,” Arthur says. He doesn’t know if he can make Ariadne understand. There’s no story he can tell her, no clever reasoning or well-considered argument. All he has is the truth, little though he himself understands it.

“Arthur, are you in love with this man?” Despite her neutral tone, Arthur can see the disbelief in Ariadne’s eyes. He shakes his head.

“No, of course not,” Arthur says. “Even you will admit falling in love after two days is a bit farfetched.”

Ariadne ignores the reference to her unusual beliefs about love, looking at Arthur in concern. “You had to?” she says. “Arthur, has he threatened you with something?”

“No,” Arthur says immediately. Eames is clearly quite flexible when it comes to acting within the law, and he’s clever enough to get the best out of a situation, but Arthur can’t imagine him blackmailing someone. Indeed, Eames’s manner had been much closer to charming, as though he were trying coax Arthur into pursuing a connection. The absolute bewilderment that had followed Arthur’s proposal had neatly shut that line of thought down.

“He’s not your only option,” Ariadne says carefully. “I know you don’t want Mother and Father to arrange for you to marry a woman, but marrying this merchant isn’t the only way out of it.”

He was, though, Arthur thought to himself. Not because he was a man or his circumstance was something Arthur could use to convince his parents this marriage would serve the kingdom. When Eames smiled at Arthur, he didn’t analyse what this response meant in relation to the trade situation in Proclus. When Eames asked a question, Arthur didn’t consider what information Eames was after and what was safe to give him. And when Eames’s shirt shifted, revealing patches of swirling ink, Arthur didn’t try to match the imagery to known cultural emblems to discern the significance of the marks. Arthur just felt warm and wondered if he could make Eames laugh, worried he might lose Eames’s interest, and wish he was bold enough to ask what the tattoos meant to Eames. 

It has only been two days, but Arthur knows Eames is one of the most interesting people he may ever meet. Already, he feels more comfortable with Eames than anyone outside his family and Yusuf. The chances he will ever met someone likes Eames must be extremely low, and he would be foolish to simply let Eames go with the thought that someone else might be suitable. He can only hope Eames feels something similar for Arthur.

“Eames is not merely convenient to my needs,” Arthur says, wincing at the suggestive phrasing. “I can sell him as a marriage prospect to Father, but that’s not why I chose him.”

“No?”

“He’s…” Arthur trails off. Explaining Eames seems an impossible task. “We have a responsibility to marry, and to marry suitable to our position. I understand and accept this; I can see how damaging it would be if people turned their backs on this system.”

“Arthur,” Ariadne starts to say, but Arthur shakes his head.

“I never resented it, Ari,” Arthur says. “But I hated it all the same. My duty is to our people first, and I could never imagine being married to be anything other than fulfilling an obligation. One I would suffer with closed eyes and gritted teeth, and hope desperately I could get through it.”

Ariadne is frowning deeply by the end of this little speech, and Arthur wonders if he should have down-played his dread of marriage. There’s no sense in upsetting Ariadne, not when Eames might say no and he’ll be back at square one. But already Arthur feels lighter for having said the words aloud.

“When I think about being married to Eames, I’m not fixated on trying to work out how I will get through the days. I didn’t come up with a plan to marry a merchant’s son and then seek Eames out; I met Eames and we started talking. Not the stuffy conversations we hold with courtiers, or the awkward pleasantries with loyal subjects, but something more like the way I talk with you and Dom.” Arthur sighs. “I never imagined a spouse as someone I would be close to, I didn’t realise it was something I would even want.”

“Your spouse should be your best friend,” Ariadne says softly, reaching across the table to grasp Arthur’s hand. It’s a comforting gesture, but it just makes Arthur think of Eames grabbing Arthur’s hand so easily, holding it so securely. Hand-holding is something else Arthur had never seen as something desirable to do, yet now he can’t stop imagining Eames doing it, linking their hands together as they walk to breakfast, squeezing them when it would be indecorous to comment on something. They haven’t even done these things and Arthur feels the loss of them, stomach twisting at the thought of Eames coming to tell him no, thank you, but he would really rather not marry Arthur. “You should want to be there for each other. Marriage should never be something you just suffer through.”

“That’s why I had to ask him,” Arthur says, shrugging as casually as he can manage. “We started to talk about marriage and I realised the thought of being with him made the whole business seem more than bearable. I want to marry him, Ariadne, and I never thought I would feel that way about anyone.”

“Okay,” Ariadne says, nodding. 

“I have your blessing?” Arthur asks, smiling wryly.

“Yes,” Ariadne says, the solemnity of her comment somewhat ruined by the grin she gives him in return.

 

Eames doesn’t arrive until well after lunch. By this time, Arthur has worked himself up into an impossible state, and after snapping at a servant, secluded himself away in his chambers. When Eames’s presence is announced, a new wave of nervous dread washes over Arthur, though he makes a point of dismissing the messenger calmly. His mother will never let him hear the end of it if word gets out that he is being less than coolly aloof with the castle staff. 

“Arthur?” Eames wanders into Arthur’s chambers, carrying a large rolled up tapestry. It’s heavy enough to make his arms strain against the fabric of his sleeves, and Arthur hastens over to help Eames put it down.

“Thank you, Mr Eames,” Arthur says. Was his voice too distancing? Asking a man to marry him left Arthur feeling surprisingly vulnerable, but if Eames had come to tell Arthur he was considering accepting, the last thing Arthur wanted to do was to convince him it was a bad idea.

“Don’t thank me until you’ve seen it,” Eames says, smiling at Arthur. The smile is lacking it’s usual warmth, if two days’ acquaintance is enough to claim such knowledge, and there’s the words come out slightly strained. Disappointment pools in Arthur’s belly and he wonders if it would be better if Eames were to just turn him down and leave. 

“Well, if nothing else a tapestry can be tucked discreetly away,” Arthur replies teasingly, hating the strain that takes the levity out of it. Maybe it’s cowardly, but Arthur hopes Eames chooses to let him down slowly and gently. Give him something nice to remember him by, and maybe soothe his ego a bit. “A large chest of drawers or a table would have been much harder to hide.”

“True,” Eames agrees. “And with a tapestry, all it takes is one spilled glass of wine, an accident in cleaning it and out the door it goes, no hard feelings.” The corner of Eames’s mouth quirks up and it’s not quite a wink, but Arthur’s stomach unclenches slightly. He doesn’t want to accidentally insult Eames’s gesture just because he is feeling wound up about the proposal.

“All the same, I think I ought to pay you before I see it,” Arthur says, walking over to his desk.

“No, don’t,” Eames says and the awkwardness in Arthur’s voice is enough to make him stop and turn back around. Eames is fidgeting and looking nervous.

“Eames,” Arthur says gently. He steels himself. The burden he placed on Eames by asking him to join with the royal family was an enormous one. It was unfair to place it on Eames, and he owes it to the man to take it back. “I asked you in all sincerity to join with me in marriage, but I didn’t mean to make you feel obligated to accept. The matter was private, just between you and me. I didn’t come with my family’s backing and so my royal status shouldn’t enter into it.”

“I don’t feel obligated,” Eames says, and the smile he gives Arthur is genuine, a hint of something stronger flashing in his eyes.

“Good,” Arthur says firmly. “Then let me pay for the tapestry and we’ll take your answer as read.”

“I don’t want you to pay for the tapestry,” Eames says.

“I know it was just a pretext for getting you into the castle, but I can’t let you go back empty handed,” Arthur says. It’s easy, throwing himself into the practicalities of the situation. This is what Arthur is good at, dealing with the minutiae of the day, making sure no small piece is missing that could cause the whole to fall about their ears. Never mind that in this case Arthur’s world is already starting to crumble. The day must continue and the least Arthur can do is make sure Eames is kept clear of the fallout. “And it would be stupid to make you lug it home. Besides, whatever exorbitant price you were planning on charging for the thing is unlikely to send me broke.”

Arthur doesn’t mention that he would also like to keep it, as a token that Eames was, however briefly, a part of his life. There is no way they can return to another kind of relationship after this business; there are no relationships available for a prince and a merchant to return to.

“I want you to keep it,” Eames says, catching Arthur’s eyes and holding his gaze. All at once, Eames’s entire demeanour solidifies. Gone is the uncharacteristic nervousness, but neither does he return to his usual faintly amused attitude. Arthur’s not sure what to make of it, and that scares him. “Among my mother’s people it is traditional to give a tapestry or blanket as a courting gift.”

“A courting gift?” Arthur repeats. “To turn down a suitor?”

“No,” Eames says, stepping closer to Arthur. “I’m accepting your proposal.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, surprised. He feels strangely cool and it takes several moments for him to process Eames’s statement. “Well that’s good. Thank you.”

A wave of hot humiliation shakes Arthur out of his strange state of disbelief. It’s quickly swallowed by the sensation of unutterable relief. Eames has accepted him. Eames wants to marry him. Arthur blinks hard, the world blurring slightly in front of him. It’s too much to process, Arthur’s mind spinning out the ramifications, trying to think through the years ahead. He forces himself to narrow his focus right down to this moment. To Eames standing next to him, not saying anything about his asinine response. The easy way he steps closer still and slides a rough, warm hand into Arthur’s, bending forward to brush a soft, dry kiss against Arthur’s cheek.

“You’re welcome, darling,” Eames says, warmth and amusement colouring his tone and making Arthur flush. This isn’t it, Arthur knows. There’s a lot more to do before they can become officially betrothed, families to convince, negotiations to be had, contracts signed, but things have changed between Arthur and Eames.

Arthur takes a deep breath and looks at Eames. “Are you fully committed to this?” Arthur asks. Eames frowns, but Arthur continues on before he has a chance to protest. “Once we start putting steps in motion, there’s no turning back. You are agreeing to marry a prince of the realm, this is not just a personal matter, not even just a family matter. This will soon become state business, you will have responsibilities to the nation, and all our people will feel they have a say in our lives.”

“I know,” Eames says softly, reaching a hand out to tuck a strand of Arthur’s hair back. “I thought about all of that last night.” Unexpectedly, Eames grins at Arthur. “I think I can play the part of a prince’s husband well enough, and if worst comes to worst I can always sneak you away to hide in a hidden passageway.”

“The castle doesn’t have secret passageways,” Arthur says.

“Exactly,” Eames says, winking at Arthur. He squeezes Arthur’s hand before releasing it and crouching down next to the tapestry. 

“Wait,” Arthur says. Eames looks up at him

“I went to a lot of effort to pick out the least hideous tapestry I could find,” Eames informs him. He’s not frowning, but the light has gone out of his eyes. “You must have a little bit of faith in me, darling.”

“I’m not worried about the tapestry, Mr Eames,” Arthur says, sounding more irritated than he’d intended. He still can’t quite believe Eames has agreed, still isn’t quite sure why. “I wanted to ask if there were any concerns you wanted to discuss.”

“Marrying into the royal family doesn’t scare me,” Eames says, shrugging. “I know how to deal with people, and I trust you’ll keep me informed of all the protocols I break.”

“It might be simpler to let you know when you aren’t breaking protocols,” Arthur says.

“I will try my best not to bring the royal family to ruin,” Eames says lightly, but he’s gone stiff and isn’t meeting Arthur’s eye. Arthur sighs and moves to sit on the rolled up tapestry, his knee bumping Eames’s in what Arthur hopes is friendly manner, softening the blow of his missed joke. To his surprise, Eames lifts a hand to rest on Arthur’s calf. The touch is far from inappropriate, but it’s strangely intimate and Arthur has no idea what Eames means by it. Eames relaxes in response, though, and it’s a pleasant sensation, so Arthur lets it happen.

“You pick-pocketed me and I proposed,” Arthur says. “You could steal the crown jewels and I fear everyone would simply be charmed.”

“I suspect your reaction was an aberration,” Eames says. He gives Arthur a solemn look, though Arthur is relieved to see the twinkle of mischief is back. “But I promise to keep my thieving to a minimum, and reserve my irresistible charm for those you deem it necessary to use upon.”

“That’s a weight off my mind,”Arthur says. He takes comfort in the warmth of Eames’s hand and forces himself to add, “Marriages are never wholly a political situation. The personal aspect of it cannot be ignored. Do you have any reservations of this nature about marrying me?”

“Arthur,” Eames says with a gentleness that takes Arthur aback. There’s no time to think on it as Eames moves forward and slides a hand along Arthur’s jaw, cupping his face and giving him look that is coloured by what Arthur thinks is pity. The unexpected tone in Eames voice, the sensation of Eames’s fingers holding him so intimately and the expression are almost overwhelming. Too many points of data for Arthur to try and process what Eames might be thinking, what he means by these gestures. What it could mean that Eames has encroached so far into Arthur’s personal space. 

Eames’s eyes are so intensely focused on Arthur that he can’t help but glance away, flicking his eyes down to Eames’s mouth, but that’s no better. All he can think about is having those lips pressed so affectionately to his hand when they first met, so carefully to his cheek when he accepted Arthur’s proposal. He glances back up and Eames stumbles slightly as he continues, “If you weren’t the son of the king and so far out of my social sphere, I would have said yes last night. Given time, perhaps I would have even come up with a similar idea.”

“Time is not something I have in abundance right now,” Arthur says. “For all I know, Mother and Father already have someone in mind to marry me off to.”

There’s a brief pressure on Arthur’s leg, there and gone so quickly Arthur thinks it must have been an involuntary reflex from Eames. “They wouldn’t start negotiations without you, would they?”

“No, of course not,” Arthur says firmly. “Even when Father was negotiating foreign treaties, he always spoke to my siblings before beginning anything. He believes quite firmly an emotional connection needs to be made to ensure a strong union, an essential in marriages as political as ours.” Arthur didn’t add that he suspected sometimes the conversation might be about underscoring the importance of trying to get along more than ensuring the match was agreeable. “And of course, it is essential the whole family presents a united front.”

“Will that be a problem with us?” Eames asks. Arthur shakes his head.

“If Father agrees to the idea, everyone will be expected to fall into line with him. Publicly at the very least, and Mother will not stand for infighting,” Arthur says. “The plan will sound better coming from Dom, though, so by the time it reaches my parents, there shouldn’t be any issues with that.”

“Your sister?”

Arthur ducks his head, looking down at Eames’s hand where it has slid up to just under his knee. “She already knows. I asked her opinion before I went to see you.”

“And she approved?” Eames asks. There’s enough intrigue in his voice to make Arthur look back up. 

“Ariadne has some strange ideas on marriage,” Arthur says. It’s hard to know how much to reveal to Eames. He’s no longer a stranger, and Arthur wouldn’t have asked for his hand in marriage if he didn’t believe he could trust Eames. And, Arthur is surprised to realise, he doesn’t want to keep Eames out of things. He wants to be able to confide in Eames, complain to Eames when his siblings annoy him. And maybe Arthur can talk things through with Eames, get to the bottom of the Mal situation and gauge just how wild Ariadne’s ideas are. “She thinks people should court first, and only propose once they are in love.”

“Has she been talking to the Cobol diplomats?” Eames asks, sounding almost casually curious, not shocked as Arthur had expected. As shocked as Arthur had been.

“To some traders in the markets, I believe,” Arthur says, adding with a frown, “Everyone I’ve spoken to has been very closed mouthed about Cobol marriage traditions, but I hadn’t considered such unofficial channels.”

“Never underestimate the power of trader gossip, pet,” Eames says. 

Eames releases Arthur’s leg and settles on the ground, crossing his legs in a way Arthur has only ever seen merchants do, something he presumes they have adopted from somewhere else. It leaves Arthur sitting uncomfortably higher than Eames, so he drops to the floor and folds his legs in front of himself, resting his chin on his knees and glaring at Eames’s delighted grin. Eames reaches forward and starts rearranging Arthur’s legs, ignoring his yelp of surprise, talking him through the process, his voice low and soothing. Arthur doesn’t know how to object to this, not when Eames is deft and sure and it’s all over before Arthur can feel anything beyond shocked. 

He doesn’t sit as easily as Eames, but their legs are pressed together and Eames leaves a hand on Arthur’s knee. If a servant were to walk in, they would be scandalised. Really, now they are moving towards an engagement, Eames shouldn’t be anywhere near Arthur’s private chambers. Once they start courting, servants, guards and family members are going to start lingering conspicuously nearby. Arthur glances over to confirm his chamber door is shut and decides to relax and enjoy the privacy while he still can.

“How do you think Dom will respond to our plan?” Eames hesitates slightly over Dom’s name, but Arthur appreciates that Eames doesn’t use his title, or even his full name. Objectively, Arthur knows Eames comes from a wildly different background than he does, but it never feels like Eames is beneath him. If Eames treated Arthur formally, or was awed by the mundanities of his life, Arthur doesn’t think this could work. To the people of Proclus, Dom may be Dominick, the crown prince, but to Arthur, he’s just his older brother. Arthur can admire Dom and be exasperated by him in the same breath. It’s a nice thought that he might be able to complain to Eames about Dom, to vent his frustrations and gush with pride and know Eames won’t be offended or starstruck. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur admits. “It’s going to seem very strange to him. He doesn’t mind breaking with tradition when there’s a purpose, but I don’t know if he’ll see my reluctance to leave my marital arrangements to our parents as much of a reason.”

“So we’ll have to sell the stability angle to him,” Eames says thoughtfully.

“We?” Arthur asks. 

“I’ll have to meet him sooner or later,” Eames says, shrugging. “And he might be more inclined to buy the plan if I’m there, a person not an abstract idea. I can play up the disgruntled merchants side of things.”

“We aren’t trying to make a sale,” Arthur says, smiling. “This isn’t going to be a profitable venture for you.”

“You’re thinking too literally, pet,” Eames says. “The product in question is our marriage, and Dom is being asked to give his time and energy to convince your father this is a good idea.”

“This is a marriage, Eames, you can’t sell it like a painting,” Arthur says.

“Of course you can,” Eames says. “Whenever I’m selling anything, it’s never really the object I am selling, it’s the idea of it. You have to make it make sense for them to have the item, make it seem almost essential to their lives. We are doing the same thing, but with the idea of a marriage. All we need to do is make it seem essential to Dom that our families unite. Once he hears about the growing crisis amongst the merchants about their place in Proclus, he will realise that the only option is to marry us off, and quickly.”

“The merchants are upset, but there isn’t a crisis, is there?” Arthur asks, not sure if Eames is getting carried away, or if Arthur has truly been oblivious to what is happening in the kingdom.

“It doesn’t matter,” Eames says. “Do you know why I have no qualms selling forged paintings?”

“Because you have no moral compass?” Arthur says, 

“Because they look the same as the real ones,” Eames says. “They are so close it doesn’t really matter that they aren’t originals. The painting people buy does the same job a genuine one would. My father is more serious about demanding respect than any of the other merchants, but it doesn’t matter. Things are going to come to a head eventually, we’re getting wealthier and wealthier each year. Why not fix the problem now before it even becomes a problem?”

Arthur nods.

“Dom isn’t snobbish, he won’t mind that the idea is coming from you. And he’ll be more inclined to believe that there is a crisis brewing amongst the merchants if the son of one of our biggest merchants is sitting in front of him telling him. Not that he would doubt me,” Arthur adds quickly. “It’s just Dom is an eternal optimist and might think I am worrying over nothing, or insist there is another solution. There’s something much more final about you representing the traders and demanding a royal marriage.”

“I plan to be a little more subtle, Arthur dear,” Eames says, smirking. “More pointing out the mutual benefits, and less insisting he give me your hand in marriage or I’ll sic my people on him. Although if it comes down it, I think I could throw you over my shoulder and take off with you into the night.”

“It’s only three in the afternoon, you’d have to throw me over your shoulder and wait for a few hours if you want the cover of darkness,” Arthur says. “Does this mean you’re ready to go see Dom now?”

“Let me show you the tapestry first,” Eames says.

“I’m not going to change my mind based on a wall hanging,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. But he moves to sit beside Eames and they unroll the tapestry. Most of the castle tapestries depict battles or hunting parties. There’s a series in the throne room that depicts Proclus’s history, and another set in the dining room that were gifts from neighbouring countries. They have heroes, myths and nature scenes, or depict the wedding that secured an alliance. This tapestry is very different from those. It’s not as finely made, and nowhere near as large, but Arthur falls in love with it even as it unrolls in front of him. It’s of the marketplace.

The threads are muted, cheaply dyed Arthur assumes, but even so it is clear to Arthur nothing is quite the right colour, the buildings green and red and pink, the sky yellow. Shoppers fill the front of the scene. A mixture of people from different classes and even different countries, their clothing all mismatched and strangely coloured, all slightly too large for the scene. In the back of the tapestry, the buildings are smaller, and there’s little paths with animals and small children running through them. When Arthur tries to follow one path, he can’t get it to quite match up.

“Eames,” Arthur says softly. He looks up to find Eames studying his reactions carefully.

“Acceptable, darling?” Eames says, sounding too light, his cheer clearly fake.

“It’s perfect,” Arthur says. His eyes are drawn back to the tapestry, and he crouches down, reaching out a hand to trace over the threads. “Whoever made this understood her.”

“They really did,” Eames says, before Arthur has a chance to feel foolish about the sentiment. Arthur stands and turn to Eames, reaching for one of his hands. Eames offers it easily and Arthur flushes as he brings it up to his mouth to brush a kiss on the back of it.

“Thank you,” Arthur says. “For the gift, and for accepting.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Eames says, turning his hand over to cup Arthur’s jaw. “And thank you for asking.”

Arthur nods, not sure what to say; if he should make a joke to lighten the mood, or just enjoy the intimacy between them. In time, Eames will become the person Arthur is closest to, his most important companion and there will be many more moments like this in their future. It’s a comforting thought, that Arthur doesn’t need to get it right in this moment. There’s time to learn more about who Eames is, about who they are together. A lifetime to figure things out, and Eames has agreed to support him along the way. It also means Arthur doesn’t want to disappoint Eames. The thought of Eames ever regretting this decision is terrifying to Arthur, but he knows the wrong answer in this type of situation is hardly going to matter to Eames. Not at the moment, and Arthur is a fast learner. He can get this right.

“Arthur?” Eames asks quietly, dropping his hand. Arthur tilts his head, acknowledging the question. “If you weren’t the prince or I wasn’t the son of a merchant, or some combination of the two, and we were in a position where it was allowed, would you still have asked me to marry you?”

Arthur hates this sort of speculation. It makes him feel ill to try and consider all the ways his life could have gone wrong, all the struggles he would have to suffer through once more. If Arthur hadn’t been a prince, his family would probably have married him off much younger. Possibly to a man, but even that thought isn’t comforting. The thought of being asked to bed any stranger is horrifying to Arthur, and if he weren’t the prince he might never have realised it was this part of marriage that scared him until his wedding night. If Eames wasn’t the son of a merchant, if he was highborn and eligible, Arthur wouldn’t have been allowed to marry him as he wasn’t a woman. And even if he was, they would have met under formal situations and maybe Eames could have been charming and relaxed and made Arthur want to be with him, but Arthur would have been stuffy and boring. 

“I don’t know,” Arthur says, trying to gentle his voice to take the sting out of the admission.

“Don’t look so worried, pet. I was only fishing for compliments,” Eames says, although there is a hint of ruefulness in his voice. “Maybe we should try that again. Arthur, dearest, if the fates had aligned, and we found ourselves young, handsome and with nothing to stand in our way, would you have stormed up to my father’s house and begged for my hand?”

“Maybe I like the challenge,” Arthur says, unable to stop the corner of his mouth from curling up, though he keeps his voice light, breezy. “If everything were too easy, I might get bored.”

Eames places his hand over his heart, shuddering. “In which lifetime do you think I would be _boring_?”

“I take it back,” Arthur says, mock solemn. Eames nods, satisfied. 

“Glad we cleared that up,” Eames says. “I suppose we should go and find your brother, give you something to fight for before we’re reduced to playing chess.”

Arthur stops Eames as when they reach the outer chamber door. 

“I don’t know what our lives would have been like if we hadn’t been born who we are,” Arthur says. “But I’m glad we managed to work things out in this life.”


	5. The Plan

Arthur leaves his chambers and brings Eames to a more public area of the castle before summoning a servant. There’s nothing to be done about the person who brought Eames to Arthur’s room, but now that Eames has accepted Arthur’s proposal, discretion will be key. Gaining his mother’s approval will be difficult enough, but she’s likely to raise serious objections if there is significant gossip about their relationship. Arthur asks the servant to summon Yusuf, hesitating a moment before telling them to send Yusuf to Ariadne’s chambers. Once they are alone again, Arthur directs Eames to follow him at an appropriate distance, and do nothing to draw attention should someone pass them.

“Darling, why don’t we just use a secret passageway?” Eames murmurs, making no attempt to close the distance between them, Arthur is relieved to see.

“Because this way is far more expedient,” Arthur mutters back with enough volume that Eames should be able to hear him clearly. The corridor they are walking down is empty, but it’s not out of the way enough to make Arthur feel comfortable turning back towards Eames. “Your plan would involve several months of renovating a very old building.”

“Once we’re officially engaged will you let me know about the secret passages?” Eames asks. “Or are you waiting until we’re married?”

“Just because you showed me your passages the first day we met,” Arthur says, realising a moment too late how suggestive the comment is. Eames makes a small surprised snorting noise and Arthur wracks his brain trying to work out what he can say to mitigate the innuendo, or at least change the subject. They reach Ariadne’s door before he can think of anything, and he startles when Eames slides a hand into his. A quick glance reassures Arthur no one is nearby, and he allows the gesture. Eames leans in to brush a kiss against his cheek and murmurs,

“You said Ariadne already approves of this.” 

Arthur consciously makes his shoulder relax, surprised Eames had picked up on his tension, relieved Eames hadn’t associated it with his foolish remark. When he turns to look at Eames, he forgets what he intended to say. Their faces are so close Arthur can’t take it all in at once, forced to decide if he wants to look at Eames’s eyes, which are soft and warm and very grey in this light, or if he needs to glance down at his lips, find out if there is a smirk or a smile or something else shaping them. He chooses neither, stepping back instead where he can safely catalogue all of Eames.

“She did,” Arthur says, aware that he took far too long to respond, and instead of being confused or impatient, Eames appears thoughtful. There’s almost a hint of something like pity in his posture, but the way Eames is playing with Arthur’s fingers doesn’t fit with that assessment. The way Eames is looking at Arthur could never be classified as condescending.

“And whatever he might think of this, Dom isn’t going to reject you, right?” Eames says rather carefully. 

Arthur shakes his head. It’s too late now to worry about Dom’s reaction to this plan, but it’s a better excuse for Arthur’s anxiety than a sexually suggestive slip of the tongue. “I need this plan to work,” Arthur says bluntly, because if he couldn’t be straight with his future husband, there would be no real point to this.

For a second, Eames hesitates, eyes softening impossibly further, but then he straightens. “We’ll make it work,” Eames says decisively. He releases Arthur’s hand and gestures towards the door. “Shall we?”

The fates seem to be with them, as Ariadne opens the door herself, no maid or other servant in her chambers. She smiles at Arthur and gives Eames an assessing look.

“Arthur?” she prompts. From the keenness of her gaze, Arthur suspects Ariadne has already worked out who Eames is. He appreciates that she doesn’t rush him on this, doesn’t immediately start to make some judgement on Eames, his character and suitability.

“This is Eames,” Arthur says. “Can we come in? There’s a lot we need to discuss and I would prefer to do it in private.”

“Of course,” Ariadne says, moving back to allow them inside.

Ariadne’s chambers are light and airy, a beautiful wallpaper depicting swirling vines and swooping birds. There’s several plush chairs and settees, more than enough room for them to spread out even after Dom and Yusuf arrive. Eames’s decision to sit next to Arthur, sides pressing together, must therefore be deliberate, and Arthur is comforted by the silent declaration of support. Already, they have become partners in this venture. It’s a nice enough sentiment that Arthur feels emboldened enough to lace their hands together once more.

“I take it Eames is your merchant then?” Ariadne says, smirking at the gesture.

“Yes,” Arthur says. It’s a delicious feeling, being able to say that with certainty. Eames has agreed to be his, and Arthur is allowed to tell the whole world. “I’ve summoned Yusuf, but I haven’t sent for Dom yet.”

“No time like the present,” Ariadne says. “I think he’s still in his chambers, let me ring for a servant.”

Arthur thinks about protesting, about suggesting that they wait until Yusuf arrives and get him to fetch Dom, but dismisses the idea. There’s nothing to be gained by delaying this.

“Arthur tells me you’re something of an architect,” Eames says, when Ariadne returns. He’s friendly and easy and something inside Arthur unclenches. He hasn’t been able to work out how he will fit Eames into his life, into his home and his family. But of course he’s underestimated Eames’s skill at finding a place for himself.

Ariadne laughs, pleasure colouring the sound. “Did he indeed? I suppose I dabble a little. It’s not something I could ever make a career of, mind.”

“No, I suppose not,” Eames agrees wistfully. He starts to explain the extensions and renovations his father is currently planning. The almost dismissive way he mentions what must surely be some incredibly expensive equipment startles Arthur. Categorising Eames’s family as reasonably wealthy was apparently a huge understatement, and for Eames to be so comfortable with it, the money can’t be that new. Ariadne is more interested in the design problem Eames poses to her, but even so, Arthur can tell she has been caught off guard. Her eyes run speculatively over Eames even as she speaks, lingering on his unfashionable haircut, dirty trousers and too-large shirt.

When Dom arrives, Yusuf in tow, Arthur and Eames separate, disentangling their hands by some silent agreement.

“Dom, Yusuf, this is Eames,” Arthur says. Yusuf nods at Eames, before moving over to exchange meaningful glances with Ariadne.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Eames,” Dom says, reaching a hand out to shake Eames’s. As ever, Dom moves easily into his Prince persona, adjusting it into something slightly more personal in consideration to the informal setting.

“Your majesty,” Eames says.

“Dom, please.” Eames nods. “I understand from Yusuf that you are a recruit of Arthur’s? Something for James’s naming day?”

Eames seems quite amused by this misunderstanding, but Arthur can’t stand it. He doesn’t want Dom looking at Eames like he is an employee, someone useful but ultimately disposable. Eames will be Dom’s family, important to Dom even if it just for the fact that he is important to Arthur.

“No,” Arthur corrects. “I’ve asked Eames to marry me.”

Everyone stills, leaving nothing but silence in the wake of Arthur’s proclamation. Dom breaks it first, sitting heavily in a chair, still gaping at Arthur.

“What?” Dom demands.

“Eames accepted,” Arthur clarifies, unsure where to go from here. 

Dom turns to Eames. “Excuse me, but this is a family matter. May I have a word with my brother in private?” 

“Of course,” Eames murmurs.

“Yusuf will show you out,” Dom says. A look of hurt flashes across Yusuf’s face. He’s rarely left out of their private matters, long considered a part of the family. For all that he’s not the best servant, Yusuf seems to recognise the importance of not challenging his master on this matter and stands stiffly, ushering Eames out of the room.

“Arthur, what’s happened?” Dom asks, running a hand through his hair.

“There’s unrest amongst the merchants,” Arthur starts, ignoring Ariadne’s wince. Dom will of course need to know the facts of the case. They will stand up far better than his own fears and inadequacies. “They grow wealthier and wealthier every year, and yet their status remains as low as if they were merely opportunistic fishermen. Worse, for they don’t even have the respectability of the lowborn.”

“What on earth does this have to do with you getting engaged to scruffy-looking men?” Dom says, perplexed.

“Some merchants are wealthier, much wealthier, than the courtiers and they’re sick of being looked down upon,” Arthur says. “I suspect Eames’s father may well have money enough to rival our own private wealth.”

“Arthur, has he forced you into this?” Dom asks, sounding almost stricken, an unexpected vein of guilt in his tone.

“No,” Arthur says sharply. Then again, softer. “No. It’s just… We need to start taking them seriously, acknowledging their place in society.”

“I think a royal marriage is a few steps beyond good manners,” Dom says.

Arthur shakes his head, feeling lost. “They want more than that, Dom.”

“Not from you,” Dom says. “That’s not your job.”

“This is a good plan,” Arthur says. He looks to Ariadne for support.

“This isn’t just about duty for Arthur,” Ariadne says softly. Dom considers this, frowning at Arthur before shaking his head.

“I don’t understand,” Dom says.

“Let Eames back in,” Ariadne says. “Let him explain it to you.”

Dom nods and Ariadne gets up to bring Eames and Yusuf back into the main chambers. Eames looks at Arthur in concern, murmuring, “Darling?” as he sits down. Arthur just looks helplessly at Eames, getting a tight nod in return. Eames’s hand slides around Arthur’s waist, leaving Arthur with the feeling that Eames is surrounding him, shielding him from the world outside of them. It doesn’t seem to matter that their positions are all wrong, that Arthur should be protecting Eames from his family, not the other way around. The warm pressure calms Arthur almost more than his certainty that Eames can explain this. Eames can get Dom to understand how important this is to Arthur, even if Eames himself doesn’t know why.

“Arthur tells me there is unrest among the merchants,” Dom says, eyeing Eames with suspicion. 

“The merchants love Proclus,” Eames says firmly. “We’re proud to call this country home, proud to serve King Marnack, and grateful for all the opportunities that have been afforded to us.

“That’s good,” Dom says neutrally.

“I just want to make it clear that this issue is not political in nature,” Eames says. “There’s no talk of uprisings or rebellions. We don’t want more rights or more power.”

“And yet we’re sitting here discussing the possibility for marriage to a royal,” Dom points out. “How is this not political?”

“Dom, I’m the ninth-born,” Arthur protests. “My marriage has never been expected to be that politically motivated. We’re talking about a social connection here.”

“Right,” Eames agrees, although there is an odd cadence to his voice that makes Arthur look briefly away from Dom. If there’s something wrong, Eames isn’t letting it show, so Arthur just lets himself lean slightly more into Eames’s warmth and hope he hasn’t misstepped. “The social benefits of the highborn are denied to us, despite many of us having superior wealth.”

“What are you after?” Dom asks, uncharacteristically blunt. He is far too well trained to act this way in a negotiation and Arthur doesn’t know what to make of this reaction. “Land? Titles?”

“We can buy land,” Eames says dismissively. “And while titles may soothe some, the real issue is acceptance. Your courtiers will not condescend to marry amongst our people, creating an uncrossable barrier.”

“I’m sure we could find some lord or lady who would agree to a match,” Dom says. “There are some who are facing destitution and would embrace the chance to escape such a fate.”

Eames shakes his head. “And then that couple would be cast out from society. It’s not enough. “Your people need to know that is no shame in marrying a merchant. The royals must lead by example.”

For a moment, Arthur is a little shaken by how convincing Eames is. Had he not put the idea into Eames’s head, seen the struggle Eames faced in making the decision to marry into the royal family, Arthur might believe him. Believe that Eames has no interest in him beyond strategic value, no regard for Arthur, no true fondness for his company. Arthur moves his hand to grip at Eames’s knee almost unthinkingly, feeling his anxiety melt away when Eames covers it with is own, squeezing his fingers.

There’s been no change in Eames’s posture, but apparently Dom caught the gesture. He’s staring at their joined hands, and abruptly his face softens with relief.

“This isn’t about duty,” Dom says, turning to glare at Ariadne. She laughs and Arthur frowns, confused.

“No,” Ariadne agrees.

“And you couldn’t have spoken more plainly than that?” Dom asks.

“Would you have believed me?” Ariadne says. Dom shrugs, a wordless concession.

“What are you two talking about?” Arthur demands.

“I think Dom has just worked out that you aren’t doing this against your will,” Eames says, his voice warmed by something other than amusement.

“I told you Eames wasn’t forcing me,” Arthur says, stung on Eames’s behalf.

“I know,” Dom says, holding his hands up placatingly. “But I also know how seriously you take your duties to the kingdom.”

“Oh,” Arthur says and he feels strangely guilty. His marriage _should_ be a duty to the kingdom, not this self-serving affair with Eames. It doesn’t feel right that he might get to gain a husband like Eames and still be serving his kingdom. “That’s not- That’s not something you have to worry about. The merchants are a concern for us, but the idea of marrying one only occurred to me after I met Eames and spend some time socially with him. I have no plans to martyr myself for the kingdom unnecessarily.”

“Good,” Dom says.

“So what’s the plan?” Yusuf asks. Ariadne grins at him, amused.

“I take it you were, as ever, already aware of the state of affairs?” Dom asks dryly. Yusuf shrugs, modestly.

“You’re going to need the king’s approval,” Yusuf says. “And he’s going to be less swayed by the fact that Arthur isn’t just doing this to make himself miserable.”

“Arthur’s right in thinking that he is less effective as a political tool than a social one,” Dom muses. “Even Ariadne has a bit more value as a bargaining chip.”

Ariadne winces and Yusuf drops a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“Father needs to understand that the merchants are on the verge of causing social collapse,” Arthur says. “He needs to know there is a problem, so we can present this solution to him.”

“James’s naming day is nearly upon us,” Dom says, “we’re going to have a lot of dealing with merchants so it should be fairly easy to make sure plenty of reports of discontent merchants reaches his ears. I was in the marketplace for less than an hour and had to break up a fight between a lady and a vendor.”

“I see it all the time,” Ariadne chimes in. Arthur knows she is lying, or at the very least exaggerating, and Arthur appreciates the gesture.

“There’s always reports from other servants,” Yusuf says, which is possibly going a bit too far. Dom surely knows that Yusuf has very little to do with the other staff, and there’s no way he would have servants reporting this sort of thing to him. “The merchants are polite, but it’s clear they see themselves as above the servants, and there’s often bitter mutterings about being spurned from social events.”

Dom nods, satisfied. “That should be enough.” He stands and holds a hand out to Eames again. “A pleasure to meet you, and welcome to the family.”

“Thank you,” Eames says, sounding genuinely touched.

“Ari, Yusuf, we should leave Arthur to say goodbye to Eames,” Dom says.

“Ew, not in my bedroom,” Ariadne says, grinning and winking at Arthur. 

“No, I’ll see him off somewhere else,” Arthur says, standing quickly and feeling faintly queasy. He grabs Eames’s hand and pulls him out of Ariadne’s chambers, not caring if he’s leaving too abruptly. Less carefully than before, Arthur finds an unused sitting room and drags Eames inside.

“Arthur, are you okay?” Eames asks, stroking his arms down Arthur’s arms. It makes everything slow down in Arthur, and he blinks, shaking off the odd rushing feeling.

“Yes,” Arthur says, breathing out slowly. “Yes, I’m fine. I think that went well.”

Eames hums noncommittally. “Having Dom on our side will help immensely,” Eames agrees. “You don’t mind giving your father exaggerated reports on the state of the kingdom.”

Arthur shakes his head. “It’s all for the good of the kingdom. We’re not hurting anyone.” His voice is quieter, less sure than he wants it to be. Eames lifts a hand, cupping Arthur’s cheek carefully, almost cradling Arthur’s face.

“No,” Eames says, echoing Arthur's soft tone. “We’re not hurting a soul.”

For a few moments, they just stand there, looking at each other until the shakiness that Ariadne’s comment brought on has eased and Arthur suddenly becomes aware of how close Eames is standing. He can feel the warmth of Eames’s skin, can see the fine hair that covers his arms. The swirls of ink are clearer than ever and Arthur feels the urge to reach out and touch them rise once more. He stops himself just before his fingers land on the tattoos.

“Can I?” Arthur whispers, embarrassed.

“Sure,” Eames agrees. The skin is warm, but the dark patches present no unexpected sensations. Just Eames’s usual slightly rough and dry skin, rising in goose bumps in response to Arthur’s light touch. Eames rolls his sleeve up to reveal that the tattoo continues up his arm, spreading out in a mixture of the strange, Cobolian script and flowing, twisting tendrils, that might be vines or waves or just an abstract design.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, giving the skin one last stroke before pulling back his hand. “They’re lovely,” he adds. He hadn’t been game to do more than trace his fingers over the ink, but he wishes he was bold enough to smooth it over with his whole hand. To map out the skin with his lips. The thought takes Arthur aback. While it doesn’t bother him the way sex does, the thought of kissing someone, on the lips or elsewhere, has never held any interest for Arthur.

“Thank you,” Eames says, his voice a little hoarse. He hesitates a moment, before leaning in and pressing a kiss to Arthur’s forehead. The touch is brief, but the sensation lingers, a pleasure that scares Arthur a little. It’s a relief when Eames steps back, and they fall into a discussion about how Eames will present their engagement to his father.

*

_tonight would be a good time to visit father -eames_

Arthur reads through the note again, feeling oddly fond of Eames’s scrawl. It’s been nearly a week since Arthur has seen Eames, an unfathomable span of time considering it’s more than three times the length of their prior acquaintance. Between the half-dozen letters they had exchanged each day, dashed off quickly and ferried faithfully by palace servants, Arthur almost feels he knows Eames handwriting better than his voice by now. It’s nothing like the lettering on his arms, a messy sprawl contrasting sharply with the preciseness his forgeries must require of him. The notes, tucked carefully away in Arthur’s dresser, feel far more private than their contents could explain. These careless scribblings, for his eyes only, no talk of wasting paper or proper phrasings. As intimate as a whisper in a crowded room.

_I can arrive after dinner, 7:30. Does your father require some kind of official notice? - A_

A new servant is summoned and Arthur thanks James’s naming day for providing such excellent cover for the endless notes being sent back and forth without arousing suspicion. Eames’s invitation to visit is timely, Arthur thinks to himself. There is no longer much point in using the messengers to create reports of merchant unease for his father. The king has been all but inundated with stories of merchants, useful, polite, but unhappy with their situation. Arthur’s ready to move on to the next stage of their plan.

_no, have been making it seem like you are dead keen to make a connection the eameses but have been scared to broach with your fam until you knew dad would agree. a letter opener with royal insignia wouldn’t hurt, though. see you at 7:30 (I presume you are disgustingly punctual)-eames p.s. wear ring._

 

“Arthur,” Eames says warmly, opening the door wider. “I was beginning to think I had dreamed you up.”

“It’s 7:27,” Arthur says, glancing at his pocket watch. “You did request a revolting amount of punctuality.”

Eames snorts and crowds into Arthur’s personal space, sliding hands onto his hips and pressing a warm kiss onto his cheek. It’s hard for Arthur to remember if this was what Eames was like before they parted for the week. If he was always this tactile. The gesture feels so right, so comfortable and easy that Arthur thinks it must have been. But he can’t remember how he is meant to respond. All he wants to do is lean into the touch. The thought of getting closer scares him, desperate to not send the wrong message, to twist a gentle gesture of affection into something altogether different and unwanted.

“Darling, would it be terribly sentimental to say I missed your sweet talk?” Eames says, releasing Arthur and leading him further into the house.

No, Arthur thinks. What’s terribly sentimental is how much I missed _you_. He just says, “I suppose absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“Did it?” Eames asks, lightly enough that Arthur wonders if Eames is joking or if he’s nervous.

“I suppose it must have,” Arthur says, keeping his own voice more carefully modulated, a skill honed from years of practice. “I’ve never been three minutes early in my life. A royal can never be late nor early, according to my mother.”

Eames flashes a grin at Arthur and Arthur wishes they weren’t in Eames’s father’s house, wishes he were bolder, filled with an irrational desire to trace the curve of Eames’s smile with his fingers. 

“Father?” Eames calls out when they reach a door curtained by rich velvet. A man appears almost immediately, middle aged and lavishly dressed. There’s enough similarity to Eames, the same jaw, solid stature and strong arms, that Arthur feels comfortable to presume this is Eames’s father. After Eames’s easy, almost mocking manner, it’s startling when the man swoops into a deep, flourishing bow.

“Your royal majesty,” he says, voice low and gravelly.

“Hold out your hand, the one with the ring,” Eames murmurs, leaning closer to Arthur’s ear. Arthur complies and Eames’s father clasps it reverently, pressing a delicate kiss to the ring.

“Rise,” Arthur says, feeling ridiculous. But Eames had spoken often enough about his father’s love of officiousness and all things royal.

“It is an honour to have you in our house, Prince Arthur,”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr Eames,” Arthur defers. He had clarified with Eames that their family has no surname, no titles or ties to attach to their name, and decides this is the easiest way to address Eames’s father. “Thank you for inviting me to visit your home.” Arthur pulls out the promised letter opener and hands it over. “A token of my gratitude.”

“This is too much, your highness,” Mr Eames protests, even as he snatches up the present.

“Please, call me Arthur,” Arthur says, giving Mr Eames an entreating look. “I am, after all, here on personal business. I come to you not as a royal inspecting his people, but as a man seeking the hand of your son.”

“When Eamesie told me, Arthur,” Mr Eames says, his tone losing the exaggerated formality and settling into something more comfortably self-assured, a man who knows he has earned his place in the world. “I couldn’t believe my ears.”

“And yet, is it really so strange?” Arthur says, trying to smile his most winning smile. Charming people has never been his job, but Mr Eames seems to lap it up. “Your family has done so well, any of your children would make prize marriage prospects.”

“And Eames my eldest, fit for a royal,” Mr Eames agrees, puffing up proudly. Arthur had worried that Eames’s father might be offended by the suggestion of an unproductive alliance, but it’s clear to see that he is too entranced by the idea of a royal match to get hung up on such details. A man who wants better for him family, but who is not, it seems, too deluded by notions of grandeur.

“And yet…” Mr Eames says, trailing off wistfully. They move further inside and Mr Eames sends a young woman, either one of their not-servants or one of the siblings Eames has mentioned, Arthur’s not sure which, to get them refreshments. Once she’s disappeared behind another lush curtain, Mr Eames gestures for them to sit. The decor of the house is a little off-putting to Arthur, a mixture of expensive, finely made furniture in traditional styles, and strange additions like the curtains instead of doors that Arthur presumes must be something Mr Eames has seen on his travels.

“May I be candid with you, Mr Eames?” Arthur asks, sitting forward on the lounge, ignoring the almost inaudible puff of air from Eames as his father mirrors Arthur, inching forward and saying in a low tone,

“Yes of course.”

“I’m the ninth-born child, Mr Eames,” Arthur says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do my family proud and secure an alliance that would bring honour to the house of Cobb and benefit the people of Proclus.”

“Noble goals,” Mr Eames agrees, nodding seriously.

“It is my belief that marriage to your son would bring prestige to my name to rival that of Robert, or even Rachel,” Arthur says. “I’m not going to lie to you, Mr Eames. The marriage would be shocking. For some reasons, royals and even highborns have never realised the potential that an alliance with successful merchants such as yourself might bring.”

“No,” Mr Eames murmurs, shaking his head and frowning.

“To be perfectly frank, the idea did not even occur to me until I met Eames, and realised here was a gentleman who was a close to an equal as one without royal blood could be,” Arthur says. “My esteem for your son is great, but I am concerned that my father may not understand the importance of your family to the realm.”

“What do you suggest?” Mr Eames asks eagerly.

“It is my nephew’s naming day, and at this time it is customary for highborns to give gifts, and lowborn to hold celebrations,” Arthurs says. “I believe that a particularly generous gift from your family would bring to my father’s attention the true place you hold in our society. One of my tasks is processing gifts, so it would be a simple matter for me to ensure my father hears of it, and recognises its import.”

Mr Eames leans back in his chair and nods slowly. Just as he opens his mouth to speak, a woman enters the room. She’s draped in flowing silks and moves with delicate grace, although she stops still when she spots Arthur.

“Darling,” Mr Eames says, smiling and standing up to go to her. It throws Arthur to hear Eames’s pet name spoken like this, startled and with none of Eames’s humour, though the word is obviously still intended and received as an endearment.

“Eames, I know you said you had important guests, but that is his royal majesty Prince Arthur!” the woman exclaims. Mr Eames grins at her and presses a smacking kiss to her lips, laughing.

“Now you know why I asked not to be disturbed,” he chides, no heat behind the words.

“Yes, dear,” she says, smiling sweetly. There’s a hint of Eames’s mischief in her eyes. “Had I realised that you rub elbows with royalty I will heed your words better in future.”

Arthur suddenly places her accent, clearly long tempered by living in Proclus. The woman, Eames’s mother if her twinkling grey-green eyes are anything to go by, still has her words curling and slurring with a faint Cobolian accent.

“Arthur,” Mr Eames says grandly. “May I present my wife, Nicole.”

Arthur stands and give her a short bow. “A pleasure, madame.” He reels off one of the polite greeting phrases he’s been taught for their dealings with the diplomats from Cobol, and is rewarded by a startled movement from Nicole, eyes flashing with recognition. She gives the proper return and Mr Eames seems to swell with delight.

“Will you excuse us for a moment, Arthur,” Mr Eames says and Arthur murmurs his assent.

“Your mother is from Cobol?” Arthur asks, once Mr Eames and Nicole have left. Eames nods, a crease appearing between his eyes.

“She is,” Eames says, sounding slightly uncomfortable. “Father doesn’t usually keep her tucked away like that. He was just worried, with you being a royal, that you might not want to be inundated with the whole family.”

Arthur thinks carefully for a moment, trying to work out how to ask his question without offending Eames. “She… I understand that in Cobol, it is the custom to marry for love, rather than status or money.”

“It is,” Eames says and Arthur wants to reach up a hand to smooth his furrowed brow.

“But here it is not,” Arthur says, hoping Eames will fill in the gap for him.

“No,” Eames agrees. He reaches out for Arthur’s hands, and Arthur surrenders them willingly. “My father is a very ambitious man. He was not born a merchant, and spent many years trying to carve out a place for himself in this business. With his eye for quality wares and strong business sense, success was never difficult for him. But he wanted more than just a comfortable living. Cobol has never been the easiest place to form alliances with, and father realised if he could find a way in with their merchants and artisans he could find success enough to satisfy even him.”

Arthur nods. “And Nicole was that way in.”

“Please don’t judge him too harshly for it,” Eames says, sounding strained and earnest.

“Of course not,” Arthur says, surprised. “Marriages are always the strongest form of an alliance.”

“He courted my mother, make extravagant shows of affection, until she fell in love with him,” Eames says. “From there, marriage was a simple matter, as her father was already convinced of my father’s earnest intentions.”

“And then he brought her here, and kept up the charade for all these years,” Arthur says softly. It’s a sweet story, he thinks, although the reality of it disturbs him a little. To believe someone loves you, has loved you for years, when it is all a lie is a terrifying thought.

“He does love her,” Eames says, almost to himself. “He certainly doesn’t hate her, or despise her. They have an easy, comfortable relationship, and he enjoys showering her with affection and gifts.”

“They seem happy,” Arthur offers and Eames squeezes his hands, grateful. Mr Eames returns and they fall back into discussing the plan to make the king aware of the Eames family.

 

“Eames, your mother and father, I’ll never want that from you,” Arthur says, when they are alone once more, his tone firm ever as he struggles to get the words right.

“Arthur?” Eames asks, soft and a little pained.

“Maybe it works for your parents, I’m not judging,” Arthur says, feeling yet more certain and sure of himself. “But you never have to pretend like that for me. I won’t keep favours from you, or ask anything of you that you don’t want to do. Please, promise me that you won’t try to affect more tenderness than you might feel. I want us to be true partners, equals.”

“Darling,” Eames says, softer and much warmer. He steps closer to Arthur, resting a hand on his waist, another curling around the nape of his neck. “I couldn’t do what my father does. I think over the years he has grown deeply fond of my mother, and they are happy. But you never need to fear that I am being less than honest with you.”

He presses a kiss to Arthur’s temple and this close, Arthur can feel the tension in his body. Arthur slides a hand up to the juncture where Eames’s shoulder meets his neck, and gives it a squeeze, pleased to feel the stiffness easing from Eames.

“I want to build a real life with you,” Eames murmurs. The words are real, honest and raw, and it gives Arthur the courage to brush a kiss across Eames’s cheek, before turning and letting his face lean in close to Eames’s. So many points of contact, waist, neck, cheeks, and yet there’s still distance between them. It’s not quite an embrace, and Arthur doesn’t know if he wants it to be, but he doesn’t really care. This is new and yet it still feels safe. Simple pleasures that ask for nothing more than to be experienced.


	6. The Preparations

“Arthur, what are you up to?”

It isn’t until he is faced with his mother’s suspicion, that Arthur realises how highly he has valued his duplicitous skills. And, apparently, how very transparent he is.

“I merely thought the present was worth bringing to father’s attention,” Arthur says. “It’s a fine piece, beautifully crafted and clearly expensive. Did you see the rubies embedded in the headboard?”

“I do not care how valuable the item is, Arthur, it does not explain why you are smirking at it,” Queen Alexandria says smoothly.

Arthur frowns. “I wasn’t smirking.”

“Who is it from?” his mother asks, ignoring his protest. She rests a steady, piercing look on him and Arthur realises he may have dismissed her too quickly. It’s a rather uncomfortable feeling; underestimating his mother isn’t something he has done since he was a child.

“One of the merchant families in the markets,” Arthur says. He has only a few breaths to decide how to sell this to his mother, turn her into an ally instead of an obstacle. “The Eames family, well-regarded furniture makers, although I do believe their interests extend into artwork and decor.”

“Merchants,” his mother repeats thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the rumours of unrest in the marketplace, then?”

Arthur tilts his head noncommittally. “Perhaps. The concern is one of social upset, not political. Maybe the Eames family wishes to underline their support and loyalty where the royal family is concerned.”

“Maybe,” Queen Alexandria says. “But that would not explain your glee over the present.”

Flushing, the way only his mother can make him do, Arthur says, “No. I suppose it doesn’t.”

Queen Alexandria sighs, and reaches out a hand. Arthur dutifully takes it and is surprised by the gentle squeeze she gives it, the gentleness in her voice as she says, “Arthur. I know I expect a lot from you, that I can be exacting and demanding, but that doesn’t mean you can’t still come to me for advice. Or trust me to support you when you need it.”

“Even if you don’t approve of what I am doing?” Arthur asks, feeling oddly small.

His mother thinks for a moment before letting out a slow breath. “If I feared what you planned might hurt yourself, this family or our people, then I would try to talk you out of it. But I would always give you a chance to explain yourself, to defend yourself.”

“I think it is time for a formal alliance with the merchants,” Arthur says. It seems safer to be honest with his mother now that she suspects something, rather than leaving it a mystery for her to track down. He’s learnt from his conversation with Dom, though, not to jump in too head first. Better that she agree with the theory before presenting her with his proposed reality.

“A marriage,” Queen Alexandria says.

“Currently, they have no real place in society, and they are beginning to resent being looked down upon by highborns who, financially speaking, are below them,” Arthur continues. His mother cocks her head and considers him.

“The Eames family must be very wealthy to afford such a lavish gift as this,” she says, running her hands down the beautiful drapes of the four-poster bed. “Wealthier than Robert’s bride certainly, and wealthier, it would seem, than most of your brothers’ and sisters’ spouses.”

Arthur flushes again at the conclusion his mother has drawn. All his life, Arthur has strived to do his best, but it’s never been a competition, never been his best at the expense of someone else. He has always wanted a different role, a different purpose to his siblings, something closer to what his mother does. Something that was not reliant on a successful marriage, Arthur reflects ruefully. The suggestion that he is trying to outdo his siblings sits uncomfortably, but it’s as good an excuse for marrying Eames as any other. There’s no way his mother would ever understand the truth. Ambition is at least respectable, even if it does make him seem a little childish to be competing with his siblings.

“A large family is good for the kingdom, but a ninth-born has little value in himself,” Arthur hedges, wanting his mother to believe that he is still acting with the country’s best interests at heart, even if she thinks he is also serving an ulterior motive. “Politically, I’m no use, even if Cobol did agree to a marriage secured alliance, they would want Ariadne, not me. But I could help bring social stability.”

“A merchant for a daughter-in-law,” Queen Alexandria says, frowning. She shakes her head regretfully. “I don’t see how that could work, Arthur. To tie ourselves permanently to a merchant family, to mix our blood with commoners. How can we trust that they would not demand more for themselves than we want to give? A noble match means both sides bringing things of equal value. These merchants will have nothing beyond money to bring to the alliance, and money is a fleeting and fickle beast, especially in their world.”

“What about for a son-in-law?” Arthur says.

“A temporary alliance,” his mother says, considering the words. 

“It should be enough to encourage others to start joining with the merchants, to stabilise their place,” Arthur says. “And it doesn’t expose the royal family to risk.”

There’s a long pause. “Have an invitation issued to the head of the house,” Queen Alexandria says finally. “We can see how the nobles response to the presence of a merchant in their social sphere, and it will give me a chance to judge the family for myself.”

 

_darling, just received invite, father beside self, must see you - e_

 

“Eames is coming back to the castle?” Dom asks, frowning. He seems exhausted, greying and pale, and Arthur regrets having disturbed him. “You were only at his house a few nights ago. This isn’t terribly discreet.”

“He needs to talk to me about James’s naming day. Mother decided to invite his family to the ceremony,” Arthur explains. He had only thought to tell Dom about the visit because he thought his brother would like the opportunity to get to know Eames a little better. Their only meeting thus far had been focused on strategy and coloured by shock. A part of Arthur also hoped that Mal might want to meet him, having been effusive about the importance of family to Arthur’s other in-laws.

Dom sighs. “A secret engagement is proving terribly complicated. I can see why people normally discuss these things with their families first.”

Arthur winces, but accepts the jibe as his due. “He should be here soon, should I expect you and Mal?”

“I don’t know,” Dom says. “Mal’s having a bad day today. I don’t want to leave her, and I don’t think she’ll be up for visitors.”

Arthur feels a ripple of fear course through him. This is the first time Dom had put aside any duties, no matter how informal, to stay by Mal’s side. “She’s getting worse?”

Dom hedges and then sags. “I think so,” he admits. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but she’s weaker than ever.”

“The physician-?”

“He says it will should pass on it’s own,” Dom says. He straightens, visibly putting himself back together. “James kept us up last night, I suspect she is just tired. Once we get him sleeping through the night she should be fine. It’s just hard when James wakes Philippa and we need to tend to both of them.”

“Dom, why don’t you have a nursemaid taking care of the children?” Arthur asks, frowning in confusion.

“Oh, no,” Dom says lightly, not meeting his eyes. “That’s not what either of us want. It’s customary among Mal’s people to keep the children with their parents, even after they’re weaned. And Mal always said she wanted her children raised according to their ways.”

“Surely while she’s ill-“ Arthur starts to say.

“No,” Dom says sharply. He composes himself and says, confidently, “It would just make her fret, to be parted from the children.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, raising his hands placatingly. He lets Dom disappear back into his chambers without further protest, unsure how worried he should be. Sighing, Arthur tries to make himself believe that if anything truly serious were happening, Dom would turn to Arthur. 

 

Arthur can’t stop thinking about Dom as he wanders out of the castle, down to the discreet meeting place he’s arranged for Eames to find him. Something’s changed. And yet Mal isn’t any worse, the physicians would have told them. Dom would have said something. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur spots Eames and straightens, smoothing his clothes down. Why he bothers, Arthur’s not sure; Eames has never given any indication he cares for fashion. Rather the opposite in fact. Arthur glances back at the castle, stomach sinking. What if this has nothing to do with Mal? What if this is about Eames? Dom’s supported their plan, has been reporting to the king and his only concern has been that Arthur chose Eames out of a misplaced sense of duty. But just because Dom loves Arthur and wants him to be happy, doesn’t mean he has any interest in dealing with Eames, a man out of their social class and with presumably little to interest Dom.

“Hello darling,” Eames says, drawing Arthur’s attention back from the castle. Eames is standing right in front of him.

“That’s an easel,” Arthur says. All thoughts of Dom’s concerning behaviour drain from him mind in the face of Eames, looking terribly dishevelled and holding an alarming amount of painting equipment.

“Yes it is,” Eames says, beaming up at Arthur, as though Arthur has performed some clever trick. Or, Arthur reflects, taking in Eames’s proud stance, the slight puff to his chest and the mischievous twinkle in his eye, as though Eames is about to perform some clever trick.

“I thought you wanted to come and discuss the invite?” Arthur points out, feeling bemused and oddly pleased to be so.

“Which requires a cover story,” Eames says, sounding delighted at the prospect of the subterfuge. “Can’t have a prince of the realm caught cavorting with a common market-rat like myself.”

“You’re hardly a market-rat, Eames,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes. “Much though you apparently like to dress like one.”

“These,” Eames says, shuffling his painting supplies so he can show off his shirt, “were once some of the finest and most fashionable garments money could buy.”

Arthur tries not to focus on the way the loose fitting shirt has become caught in Eames’s easel and is now pulled quite tightly against one of his arms, tension in the muscles making them stand out through the cloth. There’s so much strength to Eames, and Arthur doesn’t know whether to find this fact comforting, exciting or terrifying. Easier not to think about it, force his eyes to consider the bizarre patterns on the outfit. Patterns that, now that Arthur is looking properly, are not so much intentional as the result of misuse.

“It’s not aged well,” Arthur says. They’re standing in a small cluster of trees, off one of the main courtyards. Close enough to the castle that Arthur has not had to arrange for a guard, discreet enough for a place to meet Eames and sneak him inside. Not private enough for Arthur to reach out and touch Eames, trace some of the paint stains that have ruined the shirt. 

“An acquired taste,” Eames says, his voice low and almost rough. The change in tone, this slide from silly into sensuous makes Arthur want to snatch his hand back, but Eames has managed to free a hand and traps Arthur’s, keeping it pressed against his chest, just below his collarbone. Low enough that he thinks he can feel Eames’s heartbeat. “Like a fine wine.”

Arthur drags his eyes away from his hand, taking his gaze up to Eames’s eyes instead. Relieved by the mirth he finds, Arthur cocks his head and makes a thoughtful noise. “You’re right, spilling wine on this shirt could well improve it.”

Eames laughs, and relaxes his hold on Arthur’s hand, though he doesn’t let go. Instead, he lifts it to his mouth and brushes a kiss over it, keeping Arthur’s gaze and winking at him as he releases it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as charming as you, pet.”

“It comes with the job,” Arthur says, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalance. The air between them has lightened once more, so quickly Arthur almost wonders if he imagined the sultry edge to Eames just moments ago. He’s a flirt, Arthur reminds himself. He doesn’t mean any of it. Something loosens in Arthur’s chest. The line between repartee and romance is much thinner where Eames is concerned. Easy to confuse.

“Makes me feel like a highborn, having a prince take the time to flatter me so,” Eames says, fluttering his eyelashes like an overwhelmed damsel from one of his tales.

“I did ask you to marry me,” Arthur says, feeling strangely cross. And then he realises of what he speaks. Of where he is. Eames must realise at the same time, because he suddenly hardens, giving a cautious glance around the courtyard.

“We should go inside,” Eames cautions. “What’s the plan, love?”

“The plan _was_ to sneak you in through an unused servant’s corridor-” Arthur starts.

“Is that code for a secret passageway?” Eames interrupts, eyes bright.

“But that seems impossible given you decided to come armed with all that,” Arthur continues, ignoring Eames. He gestures at the easel, wood and paints Eames has tucked under his arms.

“Darling, I forge paintings for a living. I can be very stealthy with much larger equipment than this,” Eames says. “And if we do get caught, you have a very respectable reason for dragging me through your secret passageways.”

“What are you meant to be painting?” Arthur asks. “If we did have hidden passages, I would hardly hire someone to paint them.”

“Your portrait,” Eames says, easily.

“We already have a royal portrait painter,” Arthur points out. As though that matters. As though he would ever be allowed to secretly arrange for a portrait sitting, with no servants discreetly chaperoning. 

“You’re just giving me a go, seeing if I’m any good,” Eames says. “Remind your chap that no-one’s irreplaceable.”

“But you don’t paint portraits,” Arthur says, not sure why he is indulging Eames’s daydream.

“So no one will be surprised when you don’t end up hiring me!” Eames says, grinning triumphantly. “It’s a perfect scheme.”

Feeling helpless in the face of such cheerful idiocy, Arthur finds he can do little more than laugh and concede. “Fine. But do try not to get caught, I’ve never heard of someone being given a royal pardon for being a terrible painter.”

As Arthur leads them through the hedges towards the rarely used servants’ entrance, Eames leans close to Arthur’s ear and murmurs, “You wound me.” Arthur feels a stab of guilt, hating that he had let his need to match Eames’s jokes with barbs of his own overrule his usually quite practised courtesy. A forger he may be, but that doesn’t preclude Eames from taking pride in his work. Which, from what Arthur saw of it, is something he should be. “Don’t forget that I let you catch me. We’re only in danger if there’s someone with prettier eyes than you around.”

“You didn’t propose when you met Ariadne, so it can’t have been my eyes that swayed you,” Arthur points out, pulling at some vines that have grown over the door. It’s hard to tell if the relief he feels comes from confirmation this passage is unused, or from the knowledge Eames isn’t feeling his entire livelihood has been insulted. His slightly more legal livelihood, at any rate.

“Hmm, no, not just the eyes,” Eames says. Arthur is grateful for the distraction working the door open provides. He has no idea what to make of that comment, still unsure how much Eames’s initial interest in him was due to his royal status. Unsure what else it could have been and not wanting to follow that line of thought too closely.

Arthur eases the door open and considers the passageway. It’s narrow, musty from disuse, and unlit. The darkness, Arthur had thought, could be used to their advantage, provide cover in the off-chance that someone came through one of the adjoining passages. Arthur could easily lead Eames smoothly along, Eames’s hand on his shoulder, or tucked around his waist, so they wouldn’t be parted. The width of Eames’s easel will make this too tight a fit for Eames to risk holding it one handed.

“You couldn’t have brought a smaller easel?” Arthur mutters, stepping into the passageway. It doesn’t really matter, Eames is hardly going to get lost or left behind.

“This is my smaller easel,” Eames says, and Arthur can hear the grin that must follow it. They walk for a long time through disused corridors. It’s not far to where Arthur wants to take them, but he leads carefully, trying to stay quiet. Twice, Eames must grow bored with the silence. He starts to hum and Arthur stops dead, pleased to find this makes Eames not only stop, but grow more alert, move in closer to Arthur and steady his breathing. He doesn’t ask what makes Arthur stop, just trusts him and waits, not relaxing until after they have been walking for a spell.

“In here,” Arthur murmurs, opening an old door, wincing at the noise it makes. “No one uses this room any more, not since Frances left.”

Eames wanders in, looking around the room, slowly. Arthur’s not sure if he’s checking to see if there’s signs anyone has been in here, or if he’s trying to work out what items of value he could smuggle out. At last, Eames gives a small nod, and walks over to stand in front of the cold fire, putting down his easel and paints.

“This room was designed with someone very special in mind,” Eames comments. He kneels down and starts to set up his equipment, hands moving quickly, efficiently. Arthur doesn’t know any trades, and spends his days with aristocrats and academics; it feels like a treat to see hands working with such purpose, no pen in sight. Arthur swallows hard, trying to ignore the odd fluttering sensation in his stomach. It seems Eames really is about to start painting, and Arthur’s almost nervous. Eames has proven time and again he can more than keep up with Arthur verbally, an intellectual equal and far more socially intuitive. The thought of seeing Eames in action like this is making Arthur start to feel inadequate. Unworthy. 

“Sit on the couch please, darling,” Eames says, not looking up as he fusses with his paints. Arthur rolls his eyes, but moves without complaint. 

“Won’t you need more light?”

The room had seemed almost bright compared to the pitch black of the passageway, but it’s quickly returned to a much gloomier state, with its curtains drawn and no candles or rushes lit. 

“I’m guessing we can’t open the curtains?” Eames asks, looking towards the windows wistfully. 

“We could,” Arthur says. “If you wanted to completely undermine our all our stealth work.”

“Darling, I fear you lack an artist’s soul,” Eames chides, even as he turns to the fireplace.

“Candlelight is meant to be far more flattering,” Arthur says. He leans back into the couch as he watches Eames, taking perhaps too much pleasure in seeing Eames struggle with the old fashioned fire striker. 

“Not for you,” Eames says absently. He makes a noise of triumph at the sight of a spark. “Under the warmth of the midday sun, leaning back and soaking it in.”

“You make me sound like a cat,” Arthur says, scowling at Eames even as he feels himself warm with pleasure at the image Eames creates. Eames hums, noncommittal, and it takes a lot of Arthur’s etiquette training to prevent him from throwing a cushion at Eames’s head.

Arthur wasn’t sure what to expect from Eames as he painted, his mind unable to picture Eames staying focused and serious for long periods of time. It’s both what he should have imagined, and something else altogether. Eames spends a few minutes coaxing Arthur into position, teasing and warm but firm all the same. Like with all portraits Arthur has sat for, he struggles to see how twisting into unnatural positions will make for a good painting. At least the one Eames chooses is comfortable, sunk low on the lounge, legs tuck up with him, one arm casually across his waist, the other supporting his weight. There’s nothing regal about it, but it hardly matters. Eames isn’t actually seeking the role of royal portraiture. 

Once Eames starts, it’s clear his focus has narrowed down to his paints, the board and the lines Arthur makes on the sofa. It would be startling to see him so serious, but there’s nothing closed off about Eames as he works. No sense that the rest of the world has slipped away, leaving him inaccessible. There’s long periods of silence, but there’s also conversation ebbing and flowing naturally, Eames perhaps more absent, but no less willing to be drawn into jokes and teasing.

“So what should my father expect on the naming day?” Eames says, asking the question as though it followed on from the nonsense he had managed to draw Arthur into. It startles Arthur, reminding him they are here for a purpose. For a moment, Arthur feels a stab of pity that his interactions with Eames are all now laced with reasons, some element of deliberation behind them. It passes quickly though. This element has not soured their time together, and without it they would have no reason to keep meeting. To allow themselves these intimacies. 

“We’ll arrange for you father to have a chance to speak with my father,” Arthur says. “My mother worked out there is something going on, and she is open to the idea so far.”

“Your mother?” Eames says, pausing and looking at Arthur, properly, not just to consider light and angles. “How did she figure us out?”

“I may have been a little too pleased by the gift your father sent,” Arthur admits, meeting Eames’s eye, though his skin warms with a sheepish flush.

“It was marvellous, wasn’t it?” Eames agrees, returning to his painting with a grin that is far too pleased. “Really outdid himself.”

“The rubies were a nice touch,” Arthur says. 

“Does your mother approve of the plan?” Eames asks.

“She thinks I am marrying you for your money,” Arthur says, shrugging. “Wanting to outdo my siblings. It’s not terribly flattering, but she’s not upset with me. It will all hinge on what she thinks of your family.”

“Any advice I should pass on to my father?” Eames says. His hand has stilled again, the only indication this really matters to Eames. Being able to read Eames like this is starting to make Arthur feel connected to Eames in a way he doesn’t with anyone outside of his family and Yusuf. This is understanding someone in a wholly different way than the body language and tells Dom had been teaching him to pick up. 

“Don’t try too hard. Your family are not highborn, and pretending to be so will make him seem tacky. Try not to stand out, though. Stay calm, friendly, but don’t gush. Dress in expensive but tasteful clothing. Be respectful to my father, but don’t ignore the rest of the family. Be polite to the servants. Mostly, he just needs to be respectable and not irritating,” Arthur says, thinking aloud. He bites his lip and gives Eames a sheepish look. “I would perhaps phrase that more tactfully.”

Eames laughs. “That’s good advice, pet, thank you. Don’t worry about my father’s ego, either. This invitation has swollen his esteem enormously, I could tell him he needs to try and not make a fool of himself and he would simply agree.”

Arthur knows people are often excited to see him or his family. For the highborn it’s a social success, the lowborn a thrilling treat, and for the merchants a good sale. He’s never considered that it could personally matter so much to anyone. 

Eames gives a satisfied nod and returns to his work. They talk through what to expect on the day, what the days following might look like, falling back into the slower rhythm of conversation. As Eames paints, Arthur thinks wryly that if they are caught, his efforts will once again make him seem quite vain. Careful with his appearance Arthur might be, but he’s never thought of himself as a vain creature. It’s better than the alternatives, though, however much he dislikes this new image. The real concern would be if anyone connected the painter with Arthur’s fiancé. 

“Darling?” Eames asks softly. Arthur realises he’s let his thoughts drift onto his face and smooths his brow immediately.

“Nothing,” Arthur says, with a rueful smile. They haven’t been caught yet; there’s no sense borrowing trouble.

The fire is starting to burn low when Eames puts down his brush. The painting is not yet finished, wouldn’t be for a long time if Arthur’s experiences in the past are anything to go by. Eames doesn’t offer to show Arthur the painting and Arthur takes his cue from him, not asking and letting Eames pack up. Arthur sits up and stretches out. The position had been comfortable, but his muscles are stiff from staying stationary for so long.

“I must say,” Eames declares, collapsing down next to Arthur, limbs looser than Arthur has ever seen them, as though all the careful energy has simply oozed out of him through the paints. They are sitting no closer than they have at any other time, but it feels far more intimate, a careless action, the flop of an arm so it lies across Arthur’s an unexpected, but by no means unwelcome weight. Eames’s thighs falling open, pressing against Arthur. With no tension behind it, it’s not intrusive, their bodies just mould together. “Breaking into a castle has turned out to be far less strenuous than I would have expected.”

“Odd that,” Arthur says, resisting the urge to let himself sink further into the sofa. Into Eames. “Considering you were lead here by one of the princes-in-residence, who not only has a key, detailed knowledge of the castle’s workings and schedules, but also has permission to go wherever he likes.”

“Details,” Eames says, lifting his hand briefly to wave it, casually dismissing Arthur’s point. He lets it drop back down where it tucks in with Arthur’s, and Arthur can’t even work up the energy to roll his eyes. “You were not striding around your home, lording it over the peasants and generally underlining your importance. This was a mission of stealth. You were perhaps more afraid of being caught than a simple thief in the night. I always found sneaking back home much harder than breaking into shops or alehouses.”

“Eames,” Arthur starts, voice low and uncertain. There’s so much he still doesn’t know about Eames, so much he wants to learn, but he’s unsure of his words in a way he never has been before. He has trained himself in words, twisted them so they might become his forte, rather than his failing. Helping Dom with diplomats is rather a different skill set, however. Accidentally hurting Eames is a much larger risk. 

“Yes, Arthur?” Eames asks, words almost slurring, so content has Eames grown. His fingers seem to have found some of the energy Eames has lost, starting to move over Arthur’s thigh where they rest, dancing slowly, aimlessly. It strikes Arthur that he has more to work with than words here. He slides a hand down to take Eames’s, tangling their fingers. When that doesn’t feel like quite enough, he curls his other hand over Eames’s wrist, thumb rubbing circles on the back of Eames’s hand, the action serving to soothe Arthur more than he thought it would Eames. The smile Eames gives, looking down at their hands, is softer than Arthur knows what to do with.

“Your family is very rich,” Arthur says, and then winces. Eames leans into Arthur, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. His shoulder is a warm and comforting pressure, his hand too lets out more heat than Arthur expect, dry and calloused, but too tempting to pull away from. 

“We do have enormous amounts of money, a disgusting amount really,” Eames says, sounding amused by the thought. “If my father decided to swap water for coconut milk on Tuesdays and Thursday, we could probably afford to do it. Not just for drinking mind, bathing and laundry, too. We really do have more money than one could be expected to know what to do with.”

Eames has started speaking slightly too quickly, a frantic energy that stops Arthur from smiling, laughing at his attempt at a joke. 

“Apart from the role it plays in our ruse, I’m not that interested in how much money your family has,” Arthur says, trying to add enough something to the words to erase whatever thoughts Eames is chasing. He doesn’t know what Eames is feeling though, what memories or worries Arthur has managed to conjure, although perhaps he ought to be able to work it out. The value of money is a real and ever-present pressure for all, from the very richest to the very poorest. Eames has undoubtedly experienced pain alongside all the privilege his father’s wealth has brought. 

“You say that now, but wait until you’ve tried a coconut milk bath,” Eames says. His hand, the one not currently clasped by Arthur, reaches over and he tucks two fingers into the crook of Arthur’s elbow, not tickling or pinching, just holding on.

“Can I ask you something?” Arthur says. He’s trying not to let himself be consumed by how closely they are sitting, how much Eames is slowly creeping into Arthur’s space. There’s no real room left for anything but Eames left in his mind, but it’s not just the physical sensations. The more Arthur gets to see of Eames, the more questions he has, the more he realises there is to know. And Arthur wants to know so much.

“Anything,” Eames says. Arthur shivers at the tone in his voice. Eames is as warm and fond as ever, but he’s not being glib and it’s so much rawer than Arthur is prepared for.

“You pick-pocket,” Arthur starts, “and make jokes and references to breaking into places, but you’ve never gone without in your life.” Arthur stops, not sure how to phrase his question. Eames has worked it out, though, and gives Arthur a rueful smile.

“How can I justify taking from others when I have so much?” Eames says. “I’m no Robin Hood, I know.”

“Who?”

Eames shrugs dismissively. “Another Cobol fairy tale. Doesn’t matter,” Eames says. He slides further down into the sofa, until his hip is pressing into Arthur’s thigh, his head level with Arthur’s shoulder, and he leans back, looking up to the ceiling. “I like pickpocketing, it’s an interesting challenge and it keeps me occupied.”

“Eames-” Arthur starts to say, his voice urgent. It feels as though his stomach has dropped, a lead weight sinking down into the couch.

“I’ve never kept anything,” Eames says, cutting him off. He twists his head to look at Arthur, and their faces are so close, Eames looking up at him seriously. “It was never anything more than a hobby. Lifting purses and trinkets. When I was younger I would either drop them loudly enough to ensure it was heard, or return things as I did with you. Then slipping them back became part of the challenge, part of the fun.”

“And breaking into places?” Arthur asks. Eames’s eyes are such a deep green in the dim lighting, and Arthur can’t work out why this fact makes him almost scared to trust him again. To accept Eames is still more than worthy of a place in Arthur’s life.

“I like to think of myself as part of the working underclass,” Eames says. “My family has never had a place amongst the highborn, and I think a little bit of me was always proud of that. Our money was earned, not inherited. But when it comes down to it, I was never been anything other than a wealthy, privileged child, bored and longing for a challenge. An escape. A way to prove myself.”

It’s too much. Arthur can feel himself at nine in those words, when he first started exploring the passages the servants took. At six when he first realised being a prince and being a ninth-born prince were two very different things. At seventeen when he slipped away from yet another wedding, frustrated and angry with himself for feeling trapped yet lost, lonely yet terrified of being tied to another person for the rest of his life. He’s been born to so much privilege, and he knows it well. Most of Arthur’s worries are founded on fears that would have been ten-fold worse had he not been born a prince, but that hasn’t stopped him from aching with boredom. Dreaming of an escape. Trying over and over to prove himself worthy, somehow earn all he has been given.

“Oh,” Arthur says. Eames grins at him, lopsided. His face is slack and before Arthur can think of anything to say in response, Eames drops his cheek onto Arthur’s shoulder, his lips briefly brushing Arthur’s shoulder. It’s not a kiss, but it’s so much more than just skin skimming cloth.

A soft, comfortable silence settles over them, and Arthur can feel space in his mind for things other than Eames opening up. They have been down here for too long, not just increasing their chances of being found, but keeping Arthur from work he needs to get done. James’s naming day is nearly upon them and the list of things that must be done beforehand is growing faster than Arthur is cutting it down. Feeling the warmth of Eames by his side, the sound of his breath soft in Arthur’s ear, the weight of his head on Arthur’s shoulder makes it hard to regret any of it, though.

Eames seems to recognise their stolen time has come to an end, standing up at Arthur’s prompt without protest, and letting himself be led out of the castle without complaint. The painting is not dry, and the risk of leaving it behind seems minimal, so Eames’s hands are free for Arthur to pull him along by. 

“It would be safer for you to leave by yourself,” Arthur says when they reach the door to the courtyard. Separating now seems harder than it did after meeting Eames’s father, seems to be getting harder each time they do it, no matter how long the separation will be for.

Eames starts to say something, but stops himself. “You’re quite right, Arthur darling,” comes out instead. Hands still entwined, they look at each other for a foolish amount of time. In the end, Eames leans in and presses a kiss to Arthur’s cheek, high up, almost at his temple. He lingers there for half a dozen heart beats and then steps back, freeing his hand and walking off. Arthur raises a hand to touch the slightly dampened skin. He gives a few more seconds he doesn’t have to spare to think how lucky he has been to find someone like Eames. Someone he can care for and be cared for in return, with what is rapidly approaching the intensity he has only ever felt towards Ariadne and Dom.


	7. The Complication

There’s a hum to the air the morning of James’s naming day. From the servants scurrying down hallways with smiles they struggle to smooth, to King Marnack himself telling sentimental stories of Dom’s own naming day so many years before. It feels to Arthur as though the whole kingdom is spilling over with excitement for their future king. For days Arthur has been smothering his own smiles, swallowing words of Eames that kept rising to his lips, unsure how to process the warm thrill that goes through him at the thought of Eames. There’s no need to hide it today, though. Everyone is buzzing along with him.

The family breakfasts together, although Mal is conspicuously absent. Dom looks drawn, his face pinched as he reassures their mother that Mal will be present for the ceremony and lunch. 

“See that she is,” his mother says tightly. She doesn’t need to add that the naming day of the next crown prince is an essential part of presenting a strong and long-lasting rule. Arthur is running through potential subject changes when, to his surprise, his mother lets the matter drop, turning instead to Arthur’s current plans. “There’s going to be a high proportion of merchants attending the ceremony.”

The comment is clearly directed at the King, and Marnack nods, his mouth twisting into a wry smile. “Nothing to do with the endless reports of unrest I have been receiving, of course.”

“What would make him think that, Arthur?” his mother says, turning to Arthur. This would be better coming from Dom, Arthur can’t help but think. It’s pointless, though, Dom is clearly preoccupied with thoughts of Mal.

“I arranged it,” Arthur says calmly. “The social unrest will become an problem within the next few years if we don’t deal with it now.”

“They wish to be accepted by society,” his father says, nodding thoughtfully. Arthur can’t tell if he believes Arthur, if he is thinking about the affect on the kingdom. Or if he is sitting there trying to work out Arthur’s angle. Arthur’s breakfast sits heavily; his father would be less willing to accept a financial motivation than his mother. He loves his children, Arthur does not doubt this, but ultimately they must be tools he can use to keep the kingdom safe and prosperous. 

Arthur shrugs. “Trade is thriving in Proculus, the marketplace expands every year. Many merchants have fortunes to rival courtiers and landed gentry.”

“Invitations will do little to soothe egos,” Marnack says. His tone is light, distanced and academic, but his gaze holds Arthur’s. “All are welcomed to celebrate, high or low. Closer seats and a chance at a royal handshakes are not going to be enough.”

“No,” Arthur agrees. He doesn’t think his father has blinked yet. In this mood, Marnack has no tells. Arthur’s heart seems to be nudging nervously up his throat.

“So it is alliances you seek,” Marnack says. “I had not pictured you for matchmaking.”

“I do what my kingdom needs,” Arthur says. “The merchants have the money to make alliances with them very appealing.”

“Their wealth is hard-earned, but not reliable,” Marnack points out. “Family money, property and social connections are needed for successful alliances. What if a merchant’s business fails after a generation?”

“The alliances need not be permanent,” Arthur says. “An unproductive marriage would serve our kingdom in this matter.”

“An unproductive marriage,” Marnack repeats. “But who in highborn society would risk being the first to take on this seemingly disreputable alliance. It’s a huge risk, temporary or otherwise.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “Yes. It would require the security that can only come from being part of the royal family.”

Though his father did not look away or change his expression, something shifted. No longer did Arthur feel like he was being absently observed, a depth had entered into his father’s gaze. Searching for something more personal. And disappointed by what he found.

Marnack sighs. “Oh Arthur.” There was no time to parse his meaning, though, as his father looked away and started to discuss the day’s proceedings with his mother. Ariadne gave Arthur a sympathetic look. Dom didn’t seem to be aware of what had just happened.

 

“What time is Eames coming?” Ariadne asks, following Arthur out of the breakfast room. 

“His family are probably out in the courtyards now,” Arthur says, not letting himself glance towards where he can so easily picture Eames. He wouldn’t be able to see him through the narrow castle windows, nor could seeing him do anything to change his father’s comment. There’s nothing he can do about this right now. He finds his father’s words are easier to put aside than Dom’s drawn face. 

“Are you going to go find him?” Ariadne says.

“I would, but…” Arthur stops walking, waits for Ariadne to stop and look at him. Her brows have crinkled with confusion and concern. “Ari when’s the last time you saw Mal?”

“I can’t remember,” Ariadne admits in a low voice. “It’s been weeks. I keep going to see them, keep asking Yusuf, but nothing.”

“I brought Eames to the castle and Dom said he couldn’t meet with him because he was worried about Mal,” Arthur says. At the time he had been so wrapped up in thoughts of Eames he had read Dom’s refusal as a rejection of Eames, but now Arthur regrets dismissing Dom again, putting his own problems ahead of whatever is going on with Mal. “He’s never turned anything down because of Mal before. She’s getting worse.”

“Yet the physicians say she is fine,” Ariadne says. “Every report I get from Yusuf is that she is physically fine, simply of a more emotional constitution than Proclus-born women.”

“Dom’s so worried about her,” Arthur says. “And she wasn’t like this after Philippa.”

“She can’t miss today,” Ariadne says. “Father would never accept it, not unless the physicians said she was on death’s door.”

“What can we do?” Arthur asks, feeling helpless. 

“See Dom, tell him we’ll be there for him,” Ariadne says. “We can take it in turns to keep people distracted from her.”

They walk slowly down towards Dom’s chambers. Arthur’s not sure if Ariadne is just as nervous about what they will find, if she is feeling as overwhelmed by the rush of guilt. Ariadne’s knock when they finally arrive is firm, but her face shows nothing but relief when it is Yusuf, not Dom who answers.

“Hi,” Yusuf says, sounding pleased and worried in equal measures.

“How are they?” Ariadne asks.

“Dom still won’t let me see her,” Yusuf admits. Arthur steps back in surprise.

“Not even you?” Arthur asks. For himself, Arthur is close to none of his servants, choosing to employ no one dedicated valet and instead let the duty fall to footmen who seek the training or are looking for small bonuses. But Yusuf is as close to Dom as the lack of blood and difference in station allows. His duties allow him to be there in ways Arthur and Ariadne cannot. When Arthur had spared a thought to Dom’s situation, distressingly infrequently of late, he had always been comforted that at least Dom had Yusuf.

“Not since her first… incident,” Yusuf says. 

“What incident?” Ariadne asks. Yusuf glances around cautiously, before leading Arthur and Ariadne into the outer room of Dom’s chambers, gesturing for them to sit. He goes up to the door to Dom’s inner room and listens carefully before joining them once more.

“Dom swore me to secrecy,” Yusuf says, giving Ariadne a look of regret and apology. 

“You were right to keep his secrets,” Arthur assures him. “But if we are to be of any assistance today, Ariadne and I need to know what happened.”

Yusuf nods, squaring his shoulders. “Mal is not right. Something happened, not long after James was born. Something in her mind… snapped.”

“Because of James?” Ariadne asks, leaning forward, closer to Yusuf. Arthur feels himself drawing back the other way, unable to imagine Mal’s sharp, witty and compassionate mind breaking down.

“What happened, exactly?” Arthur demands. 

Yusuf shrugs, looking helpless. “I don’t really know. James started crying and she just looked at him, confused, and then put him in his crib, carelessly. She didn’t hurt him, but she acted like he was a toy she had grown sick of. Dom told her to be careful, and she just laughed and said Dom couldn’t trick her. She knew James wasn’t real. Knew none of this was real.”

Arthur’s stomach tightened as his mind flicked back to hearing Mal say those words. That none of them were real. He hadn’t know what it meant, what to do about it, and had let himself get distracted by his own problems. With a sick twist in his gut, Arthur admits that he had been _glad_ to be distracted. 

Yusuf sighs and reached out to grab Ariadne’s hand, squeezing it gently. Arthur feels like doing the same, Ariadne looks horrified, but Arthur feels he has no right to offer comfort. 

“You remember when they were still courting, and Mal would get all flirty with courtiers to rile Dom up?” Yusuf says. “She came over like that, eyes all fluttery and moved in close to Dom, stroking a finger over his lips. Her voice- god, her _voice_ , it sounded like someone else. Low and sultry, but it wasn’t sexy, not exactly. There was too much desperation in it. She begged Dom to stop it, that the game was over, that she wanted to go back home. He said they were home and she laughed, but it was more like she was choking. She grabbed one of the candle holders by their bedside table and threw it at me. Didn’t even turn to look, just threw and hit me square on my forehead. Dom grabbed her wrists and told her to stop, told me to leave, and she kept begging to be let go. Didn’t mean he should let go of her hands, she wasn’t struggling at all, just kept saying, ‘it’s not real, let me go back, we need to go back Dom, let’s go.’”

Silence falls after Yusuf’s words. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say. Arthur can’t process what he is hearing, unable to quite believe it, though he himself has seen a small instance of Mal acting this way. Yusuf wouldn’t like about such a thing, but it doesn’t feel… real. Arthur swallows hard and longs for Dom to emerge from the other room and say everything is fine. Whatever madness had taken hold of Mal is long gone and everything can be as it was. He wishes Eames were here, a steady, _real_ presence. 

“My god, Yusuf,” Ariadne says, breaking the silence at last. Arthur still isn’t sure what to say, still isn’t sure how to react. “That must have been awful for you. Are you okay?”

“Now? Yeah,” Yusuf says. “I still don’t know what happened, Dom won’t say anything to me. Just begged for my silence and offered to compensate me.” Yusuf gives a hollow laugh. “As though a few coins could undo what had happened.”

“He was offering to buy your silence,” Arthur says, although he regrets the words as soon as they are out of his mouth. Yusuf doesn’t need to hear him explain this. Resents him saying the words, if the expression on his face is anything to go buy.

“My loyalty to your family is absolute,” Yusuf says angrily. “Dom was in shock and felt guilty his own wife had injured me.”

“Sorry,” Arthur says, raising his hands defensively. “I wasn’t questioning your loyalty. This is just a big secret to keep.”

Yusuf exhales, slumping down. “One I don’t know if I should have kept. Not from the family. Not from you. I just… Dom kept saying she was getting better. That she was starting to believe him. And I wanted to believe that was true. What I saw wasn’t Mal.”

“You did what you thought was best,” Ariadne says softly. “I don’t know what Father would have done if he heard about this, you tried to keep her safe.” Yusuf looks up at her, searching her face for something. Redemption maybe. Absolution. Forgiveness. Answers. Or maybe that’s just what Arthur is looking for. Whatever Yusuf sees, though, must be enough because he manages to smile at her. 

“Father will be thinking first and foremost about the alliance with Mal’s father,” Arthur says. For too long he has been alternating between wallowing in fears and emotions, and ignoring the situation with Mal entirely. Neither has helped in the slightest and Arthur is determined to make up for his recent mistakes. Today might be an important day for him and Eames, but it has the potential to be devastating for Mal, Dom, and then kingdom. Although there is nothing to say he can’t work on both problems at the same time. 

“True,” Ariadne says thoughtfully. “So even if he suspects something is wrong, even if he realises the extent of the problem he cannot banish her or have her locked up.”

“Not publicly,” Yusuf adds. “There’s nothing to stop him from keeping her confined to her chambers, separated from the children and Dom.”

Arthur shakes his head. “Not long-term. Even if he tricks her into writing to her father, someone will notice eventually. How many diplomats do we have coming to visit? How many public events? They have only avoided gossip so far because it’s not unheard of for women from her country to stay cloistered with their children for the first few weeks.”

“The real issue is how she behaves in public, today,” Ariadne says. “Father might not do anything to her if he finds out, but if the people of Proclus see she is not right, if there are even _rumours_ of madness, it could bring ruin to the family. James’s ability to rule would be brought into question.”

“We can’t plan what to do until we see how bad she is,” Arthur says. His mind is spinning with a thousand ideas and contingencies and solutions. He can’t see if any of them could work, how anything would play out.

Ariadne and Yusuf nod, and Ariadne lets go of Yusuf’s hand, letting him stand to go and knock on the door to the inner chamber. To Dom and Mal and whatever sickness had taken over their lives.

 

Arthur remembers the first time he met Mal, vividly. A beautiful young woman with a natural charm that had been groomed and shaped into perfect elegance and delightful company. As a prince, Arthur had spent his life surrounded by wealthy, polished and attractively presented people, but even he was impressed by her poise, in a sort of detached and academic way. She had walked over to him, practically floating across the room until she stood slightly too close to him. From this intimate distance, Arthur had absently taken note of her scent, floral and warm with a smokey undertone, and the fact that in her tall shoes she must be the same height as Dom. Then she had leaned down, placing her hands on his shoulder and looked deep in his eyes. It was, Arthur had realised immediately, some sort of a test. At this point, Dom and Mal had been courting for two years. Arthur had tensed, unsure how to pass Mal’s assessment, completely at a loss for what her criteria could be. Arthur adored Dom and didn’t want to let his brother down. Or his father. Or his kingdom. This alliance he knew was incredibly important. It had never crossed his mind that _he_ might be the one to make it fail.

“Arthur,” Mal said, her voice throaty, her accent much thicker back then.

“Yes, Lady Malorie?” Arthur said, pleased to find he could at least keep his voice steady, even if he had no control over his frantic heart.

Mal laughed and to Arthur’s complete astonishment kissed both of his cheeks. She looked him in the eyes again and grinned at him, all poise and training stripped away, leaving only her natural _Mal_ ness. “Call me Mal, we are to be siblings, no? I have never had a brother before. I am excited that you will be my first.”

Looking at Mal now, there’s still so much of that woman he met all those years ago. She’s older, tireder, but just as beautiful, the same magnetic power surrounding her. It isn’t until Mal looks up at him that Arthur feels the change. Her eyes are bright, almost manic, searching him for some kind of sign. He still doesn’t know what it was Mal saw in him in that first meeting, but it quickly becomes clear that this time, Arthur has come up lacking.

“No,” Mal says, and her _voice_. She’s sounds so scathing, angry and disappointed. She looks up at Dom and shakes her head, lips a thin white line.

“Mal,” Dom says.

“You think you can trick me with _him_?” Mal says. “You think I would not know your brother? That is not him. _Stop lying to me_.”

“Mal?” Arthur says hesitantly. Something hits him in the cheek, Mal moving so quickly it takes Arthur a second to register what has happened. Her bracelet lies at his feet and stupidly all Arthur can do is marvel at how _fast_ she is. 

“Mal, no!” Dom says sharply. Mal looks up to him, despair etched in her face, deep in her features. 

“I know!” she snaps. “It won’t help, _I know_. Please, please, just take me home, Dom.”

“You are home,” Dom says softly. Mal growls, an almost inhuman noise Arthur never thought to hear from her. Abruptly, Mal sits back, arranging herself into an artless pose, the kind Arthur sees courting maidens take when they are trying to impress their future families. Mal’s face smooths out perfectly, long limbs draping so as to flatter her figure. Her hair is wild and her eyes are still overly bright, though. An eerie juxtaposition that underlines just how wrong this situation is.

“No Dom,” Mal says softly, sensuously. “Our _real_ home. You promised you would take me. You promised to help me wake up.”

“Mal,” Arthur says cautiously. Mal glares at him. “It’s James’s naming day, do you know what that means?”

“Dom,” Mal says wheedlingly, looking away from Arthur.

“It is, Mal,” Dom says. “It’s James’s naming day and he needs you to be there. We all do.”

Mal smiles at Dom, flashing too many teeth, and leans forward, letting her breasts fall forward in the loose night dress she wears. “James does need me,” Mal says. “ _My_ James. The real James.”

“This James is the real James,” Dom says. “He’s our real baby boy and today is the day we declare him as the future king of Proclus. He needs his mother.”

Mal sighs and flops down on the bed, all grace gone.

“Please, do this for me,” Dom says. His voice is so quiet Arthur almost doesn’t hear, but Mal perks up.

“And then you will take me home?” Mal asks. Dom glances guiltily at Arthur, avoids looking over at Ariadne and Yusuf tucked away in the corner. 

“I’ll do what I can, Mal,” Dom says. Mal smiles up at him, genuinely and so full of love. It’s more disturbing than anything Arthur has seen so far.

“That’s all I ask, my love,” Mal says.

 

By the time he has finished discussing strategy with Dom, Ariadne and Yusuf, Arthur feels calm enough to put on a believable version of his capable royal facade and meet with their public. For now, they have decided the risks outweigh the benefits when it comes to telling the king and queen of Mal’s condition. Both can be trusted to smooth over any oddities Mal might come up with, distract people from her if they see her acting peculiarly. 

The people of Proclus pride themselves on being strong in both mind and body, and serious sickness is not well-tolerated. It’s impossible to know what the king or queen might attempt to do, to conceal Mal’s state or keep her out of the public eye. It would not speak well to James’s strength if his mother was absent. Arthur had argued it would be a simple matter to claim illness or unrest back home for Mal and have her sent away to deal with that, keep her out of the public eye. But Dom had been adamant that she stay, for James’s sake, for the kingdom’s sake, and without his support they could do nothing to with Mal. 

Arthur stands behind Mal, soaking up the early morning sun and keeping an idle ear on the conversation. Dom is leading it, an arm tucked securely around Mal’s waist, holding her close to his side, unsure if she would try to run. Mal speaks agreeably enough when the conversation turned to her, adequate answers that lack her usual sophistication and charm. Going through the motions, trying to prove something to Dom, whose eyes dim by the minute. Though Mal’s presence is important for James and his role as future king, it’s clear Dom had hoped to meeting with their subjects would help Mal, convince her of the reality of the situation. 

Across the courtyard, Arthur can see Eames and his family, dressed conservatively in traditional Proclus formal clothes. Every member is wearing something quite beautiful, well-tailored and cut from expensive cloth. It’s almost off-putting, the lack of Cobol influence. Eames stands out the most to Arthur, perfectly appropriate and sophisticated clothing making him look somehow strange and out of place, but Arthur had expected this. He’s only met some of the rest of Eames’s family, his mother and family formally, and siblings in passing, but even so the difference in their clothing is startling to Arthur. For the first time, Arthur thinks Proclus clothes are too stiff and stuffy. The looser, brighter clothes of Cobol suit the Eames family much more.

There’s no excuse for Arthur to go to Eames, nor Eames to cross to him. They catch eyes, smile, Arthur’s face bland, Eames’s amused. Nothing that would draw attention to them, but if forges a connection between them. Mal speaks less and less as the morning wears on, shooting impatient looks at Dom, and glaring when people move on from them. Arthur moves closer and starts to take a more active role in the conversation, unable to grow too worried, buoyed as he is by the knowledge that Eames slowly drifting towards them. 

“What is the point?” Mal hisses as cousins of Robert’s wife wander off. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“Just a few more hours,” Dom soothes, rubbing his hands up and down Mal’s shoulders. Arthur stills, trying to make himself disappear beside them, the memory of Mal’s reaction to this morning all too vivid in his mind.

“I have never understood you,” Mal says, sounding both sad and fond. “It used to be one of my favourite parts to you. The mystery that was my husband.”

Arthur swallows a snort. Dom may be many things, but mysterious is not one Arthur would apply to him. He looks away so Dom doesn’t catch his expression, and finds Eames is looking at him, only half a dozen feet away. Now Eames, Arthur thinks to himself, really is a puzzle, for all he likes to present himself as an open book. A strange upbringing, decidedly unusual career and philosophy to defend it, somehow bored with exotic people and interested by Arthur.

“Go to him,” Dom says. Arthur looks back at Dom guiltily, but Dom is smiling at him. “The ceremony will be soon, I can take Mal away, tell people she is helping to prepare James.”

Arthur nods. “Thank you. I’ll find you before the ceremony starts.”

As soon as Dom and Mal have gone, Arthur starts assessing the courtyard for secluded areas. It’s the largest courtyard of the castle, the one they use for entertaining. The weeks of planning Arthur, Ariadne and countless others have put in have created a strong sense of festival, flowers and bunting everywhere, jugglers and jesters, even a few street artists offering to paint visitors holding the baby. Stalls have migrated up from the market place, selling food and trinkets. 

Arthur finds Eames again and watches him, waiting for him to look at Arthur again. He moves lightly, almost graceful despite his size. In the more form fitting, stiff apparel of the Proclus high born, Eames seems much broader, bulkier, a solid figure people instinctively move out of the way for. He’s close enough now that Arthur can see him drum his fingers against his thighs, fingers itching for occupation. Arthur wonders how Eames resists the temptation to cause mischief, exchange purses between rivals, maybe. 

Their eyes meet and Arthur gestures towards the stalls. The smile Eames give in reply is mild enough to not cause attention, but Arthur can see the way he straightens, energy focusing in, eyes just a touch brighter. Arthur wonders how much of it is the relief of boredom ending, how much is something more personal.

“Your father seems to be enjoying himself,” Arthur says, once he has tucked Eames and himself safely out of eyesight. 

“My family are all thrilled to be here,” Eames says. He glances around them before reaching out to brush his fingers against Arthur’s. “Thank you.”

Arthur shrugs off the thanks, keenly aware the invite was issued to serve a purpose, not out of any thought of pleasing them. “I’m just grateful they could come.”

Eames tilts his head, stepping closer. “Arthur? Is everything okay?”

Sinking into the thought that Eames should soon become his partner in all things, Arthur lets himself shakes his head, lets some of the tension go, for Eames to shoulder.

“Did your father say something?” Eames asks, a touch of anxiety colouring his voice. It’s oddly nice to be able to see that Eames has stakes in this marriage, that it matters to him if it falls apart.

“He isn’t sold on the idea,” Arthur admits. “I’m more worried about Mal right now, though.”

“I noticed you didn’t leave her side,” Eames says. Arthur smiles at his obvious tact.

“She’s… not well,” Arthur says. He’s not hedging, not exactly.

“There have been rumours,” Eames says. “That the birth did not go well. She looks to be in good health, now, though.”

Though he had not thought of it before, Arthur isn’t surprised there have been rumours. Mal was a big believer in being present amongst the people. Her absence would have of course been noticed. It feels heartless, but Arthur can’t help being aware that her appearance today at least gives James credibility if she were to be locked away. If all goes well today, there will be no reason for people to think Mal was unwell before James was born.

“Physically, I understand she’s fine,” Arthur says. He lowers his voice. “Her mind is the concern.”

“Oh,” Eames says and suddenly he is closer still, tucking his face into Arthur’s neck and wrapping his arms around Arthur’s back. He’s warm and solid and Arthur wonders what in his face had given him away. Wonders if his voice had not been as steady as he supposed. “Darling I’m sorry.”

“It was awful,” Arthur says, sounding shockingly raw, pressure building behind his eyes. “She’s always been so lovely. The disgust when she saw me. Like she hated me.”

“How could she hate you, pet?” Eames murmurs. “I can’t imagine you ever threatened to cut her hands off or anything that serious.”

“That doesn’t seem to have persuaded you to take a disliking to me,” Arthur says.

“Well there you go then. Proof positive you are impossible to hate,” Eames says.

Arthur takes a deep shuddering, half-laughing breath and steps back, out of the circle of Eames’s arms. Much as he might have liked to stay, too much time had passed, the risk of discovery, of Arthur not wanting to leave, rising by the moment. 

“Ariadne and I will need to stay near Dom and Mal all day,” Arthur says. “We don’t know what might set her off, what she might say.”

“Can I do anything?” Eames asks. Arthur shakes his head.

“There’s not much _I_ can do, to be honest,” Arthur says. “Your family are still invited to the reception after the ceremony. Focus on Father, show him you are no different from the highborns.”

Eames nods. “I’ll leave you to see to your family. The ceremony will be starting soon.” 

He gives Arthur a searching look and must be satisfied that Arthur is not about to break down into hysterics, for he brushes a rough kiss low on Arthur’s cheek, lips dragging on his jaw as he stands up and retreats.

 

“That went well, yeah?” Ariadne asks, her whole body thrumming with nervous energy. Arthur knows exactly how she is feeling. They had sat so still, so poised for action through the songs and the speeches and the anointing and declaring. Perhaps three breaths had passed between them as the half-dozen people involved signed and made oaths recognising James as their future king. 

“Well? Nothing was thrown, no one was accused of not existing, no shrieking whatsoever from the royal mother,” Yusuf says. “I’d say it went bloody fantastic.”

“She was so impatient the whole time,” Arthur says. “I’m sure that wasn’t lost on anyone sitting close to the stage.”

“Impatience is fine,” Yusuf says, waving a hand. “Impatience can be explained. Madness cannot.”

“Keep your voice down,” Arthur hisses, turning anxiously to confirm no one is within earshot. Yusuf rolls his eyes. 

“Come on,” Ariadne says. “They’ll be starting the reception line soon, we should be there.”

Dom has somehow managed to convince Mal to hold James, Philippa standing on his other side, clutching at his hand. King Marnack and Queen Alexandra stand beside them, looking powerful and regal in their full, formal regalia. Today is a day for unity between the generations, showing that the line passes down with support and strength, each new royal growing yet more formidable. Arthur’s siblings and their spouses are also present, but their duties lie in wandering among the crowd, keeping them calm and reminding them of their place in the larger tapestry that is Proclus. Meeting the new prince is a strictly invitation only event, but there are still over a hundred people in the crowd. En masse like this, they don’t even feel real to Arthur and dread pools in his belly, the hundred ways this can go wrong flashing through his mind.

“This is all pretend,” Arthur can hear Dom murmuring to Mal. “A test.”

“A test,” Mal repeats, squaring her shoulders. 

The day drags on. Stress keeps Arthur alert, aware of all the little details Dom has taught him to look out for. He finds it difficult to focus, to think, and can tell little from their interactions beyond the fact no one seems to suspect Mal’s madness yet. They are barely halfway through the crowd when Arthur sees Eames and his family approaching, and already Mal’s patience seems to have worn threadbare. Her answers have cut down to one syllable, teeth bared when she is asked to smile. She glares at Arthur, at Ariadne, even at Dom at times. Queen Alexandra grows more and more gracious to compensate, and Arthur can tell she is itching to take James, and with him the crowd’s full attention. 

King Marnack has clearly noticed something is wrong and he gestures for the servants to move people on faster and faster. More than once Arthur is concerned his father with decide to cut the proceedings short to find out what has happened before Eames’s family take their turn. Arthur supposes his father has come to the conclusion that it is the more prudent option to keep going. Breaking tradition is guaranteed to cause a fuss, trusting Mal still feels like the safer bet.

“The Eames family, your majesty.”

Mr Eames leads his family forward, taking the king’s hand appropriately, giving a little bow. Arthur feels something unclench inside him. Clearly Eames had taken the time to teach his father the correct way to interact with royalty in formal situations. His whole family is note perfect, better than some of the highborn they have met today. It makes Arthur feel oddly proud, that Eames had taken the brief instructions, the scribbled out notes and diagrams, and taught his parents and siblings so well.

The conversation is polished and appropriate, and Arthur is starting to fear it will be too perfectly bland when Mal lets out an irritated gust of breath. She shoves James at Dom, treating him as no more than a stale loaf of bread. Dom cradles him carefully, shushing him softly when he starts to fuss.

“You are not even trying anymore,” Mal says, glaring at Mr Eames, cutting him off halfway through a compliment on the seating arrangements in the ceremony today. 

“I am,” Dom whispers, voice low enough Arthur thinks Eames’s family might not hear. “And you have to as well. Please, this is important.”

“He doesn’t even _sound_ real,” Mal says, flicking dismissive fingers at Mr Eames. “It’s as though an etiquette book has come to life.”

Dom freezes, Queen Alexandra pales and King Marnack’s lips thin. Ariadne and Arthur exchange desperate glances, but before any of them have a moment to recover, Mr Eames is letting out a friendly chuckle.

“If I may be so bold as to comment, your majesties,” Mr Eames says. “Only, I feel I know what you are going through. My wife is also not from Proclus.”

Mrs Eames looks startled and a little intimidated to find her husband wrapping an arm around her and pushing her closer to the royal family. 

“Indeed, Mr Eames?” King Marnack says, sounding nothing more than politely interested.

“Oh yes,” Mr Eames says. “It’s funny how different women react to birth outside of Proclus. Less babes reach adulthood in Cobol, and fewer again have easy births, compared to here. I suppose that’s why they can’t afford to have unproductive marriages. Makes mothers more emotional, I find, more sensitive to even the most everyday situations, like having a nice chat.”

King Marnack nods, once, slowly, which Mr Eames takes as permission to continue.

“It seems strange at first, watching a woman cry over dirty socks and what have you, but I have found it’s this difference that creates our greatest strengths. Take my Eames here,” Mr Eames says, pushing Eames forward and tucking Mrs Eames back closer to himself. “He’s my eldest, my pride and joy. By rights, he should be spending all of his time training to take after me. But I noticed early on he has an artistic eye, and wouldn’t you know it, now his artworks are drawing more customers to our store than ever. I think that’s the key to success, turning our differences into our greatest strengths.”

To Arthur’s surprise, King Marnack gives Mr Eames a smile, not of pleasure exactly, more of acknowledgement, but a genuine smile all the same. Mr Eames nods back.

“I think we understand each other,” Mr Eames says.

“I think we do,” King Marnack agrees.

“Then I shall take my family and wish you the very best, your majesty,” Mr Eames gives a deep bow. “Thank you for letting us come to meet you and your family.”

Mr Eames sweeps his family along, but King Marnack gestures for the servant to stall the next visitor. Instead, he turns to Arthur and says,

“So that was one of the merchants on the verge of revolting then?”

Arthur feels himself flush. King Marnack gives Arthur a long hard look, then turns to Mal, a frown settling on his forehead. He lets out a slow breath and says something, voice too low for Arthur to hear.


	8. The Arrangement

The king has been locked away in his study for hours. There’s work that needs to be done, thank you notes to write, gifts to sort, clearing up to supervise, but by an unspoken agreement Arthur, Ariadne and Yusuf are keeping vigil in the drawing room that affords of view of the study door. Dom swept Mal away as soon as the last courtier left and Arthur hasn’t seen or heard from him since. 

“What if Father does send Mal away?” Ariadne asks, breaking the silence that has settled over them. Conversation has been sparse, evolving from “Father wouldn’t really send her away?” to “What else could he do to fix this?” in between long bouts of each becoming lost in their own thoughts.

“Depends what reason he has for sending her,” Yusuf says, not looking away from the king’s door. Yusuf is Dom’s manservant and foolishly Arthur had never thought of how that would bring Yusuf close to Mal until today. “If it’s claims of health, he will have to wait for a few months. James’s reputation cannot be tainted by this.”

“He’ll send her home, though, won’t he? Back to her family,” Ariadne says.

“It’s the only place he can send her,” Arthur says. “Anywhere else and our treaty is at risk. Only, he can’t send her home. If her family finds out we have driven their princess mad the treaty will be the least of our worries.”

“She can only go home and the only place she can’t go is home,” Ariadne says, giving Arthur a sad smile. “Quite the paradox.”

Memories of playing word games and mind puzzles with Ariadne rise to the front of Arthur’s mind, tinged by the worry of the day. He echoes her smile, and they look at each other, sharing the bittersweet moment. They fall back into silence.

 

“Do you think Mother and Father will try to take James and Philippa from her?” Ariadne asks, nearly half-an-hour later.

“I’m surprised they haven’t already,” Arthur admits. He can’t bring himself to believe Mal would deliberately hurt his nephew, but the way she held him, no more carefully than a sack of flour, scared him. Not even her body, her maternal instincts, recognised James as human anymore. 

“They wanted to,” Yusuf says, frowning. “Dom talked them out of it. Convinced them she needs them by her side, to help her recovery.”

“She’s not recovering,” Arthur says, quietly, hating himself a little. “I’m not saying she won’t, but that is not what she’s doing right now. Her sickness is still ravaging her mind.”

“I’ve never heard of someone being sick like this,” Ariadne says. “Some people are born with madness, and there’s meant to be potions than can bring it on, but I’ve never heard of someone waking up one day unable to recognise their child is real.”

“Well you wouldn’t, would you?” Yusuf says. “We’re keeping it secret and Mal is married to the crown prince. Other households would be able to silence something like this fairly easily.”

Ariadne lets out a frustrated breath. “It’s possible there is a solution to this, you realise? And we might never know it because no one will ever talk about what happened.”

“The taint of madness is not one easily borne,” Yusuf says. Ariadne looks at him and then slumps down in her chair.

“Yeah,” Ariadne says. 

 

“I will need everyone to join me in the library after breakfast,” King Marnack announces, halfway through breakfast the next morning. It’s the first Arthur’s seen of him since the end of James’s naming day. Though he had sat with Ariadne and Yusuf until late last night, the door to King Marnack’s study had not moved and they had disappeared to bed with questions swirling. 

“The library?” Arthur confirms, heart in his throat. Though the room is used for it’s designed purpose by the whole family, they only meet in there to discuss marriage arrangements. 

King Marnack looks at Arthur long and hard. “Yes. Robert is successfully wed, James’s naming day is over, it’s time we started discussing your future, Arthur.”

It’s hard to eat breakfast after that. Arthur’s mind churns with suspicion. This decision has come too close on the heels of meeting Eames’s family, too soon after finding out about Mal. Yet Arthur has known this was coming, it’s the reason he raced into the plan with Eames in the first place. What if his father has had someone in mind this whole time? His mother seems not to have heard of any such thing, but his father might not share every thought he has. Might have preferred to bring it up with the family as a group, rather than discuss it behind Arthur’s back. Or maybe this is his reaction to the Eameses? Maybe he had been happy to let Arthur remain single while the dust settled on Robert and until James was older. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I might go fetch Ariadne,” Arthur says, once he can see his mother and father have nearly finished eating. 

“Have Yusuf see if Dom can be spared,” King Marnack says. There’s a hardness to his voice Arthur doesn’t know what to make of. Whether his father is angry with Dom, or with Mal, the deception, the illness or the simple fact Dom has not shown for breakfast. 

“Yes, Father,” Arthur says, rising. He’s not sure if Yusuf will have gone to Dom this morning, if Dom would have sent him away again. It’s not unheard of for servants to retreat to their quarters, stay out from underfoot when their masters are fighting, but Arthur doubts it. If anything, Yusuf would come to him, or Ariadne if Dom wouldn’t accept his help. Arthur can only imagine how shattering it must be to watch your master and good friend hurting like this and be completely impotent.

“Good morning, Arthur,” Yusuf says, opening the door to Ariadne’s chambers, proving Arthur’s theory correct.

“Father’s summoned us to the library,” Arthur says, following Yusuf inside. Ariadne is still in bed, sitting up and staring seriously at the cup of tea she holds.

“The library?” Yusuf says, and Arthur swallows a smile, hearing his own startled words echoed like this.

“Really Arthur?” Ariadne says, looking up. “When?”

“Now,” Arthur says. 

“Because of yesterday?” Ariadne asks. Arthur shrugs helplessly. Ariadne drags herself out of bed and into her dressing room. It strikes Arthur that Ariadne doesn’t have a servant to help dress her, doesn’t appear to have a regular handmaiden. Even though Arthur dislikes the feeling of intrusion that comes with having someone in his personal quarters, he accepts their role in his life, appreciates the advantages they bring. Rotating manservants gives a feeling of privacy, but not only does Ariadne not appear to have a personal lady’s maid, Arthur can’t recall the last time he saw a servants who wasn’t Yusuf in her room. 

His mind refuses to dwell on the matter, turning instead to Eames. With no formally appointed servants in his household, Eames is unlikely to bring any staff with him, but Arthur doesn’t know what kind of attendance Eames will want, what he will expect. Arthur’s heart clenches; all of this hinges on what his father will say in the library. A thought strikes him. He sits down sharply, breakfast rising in his throat. If his father isn’t about to arrange for Arthur to marry Eames, he will arrange for Arthur to _marry someone else_.

“Arthur?” Yusuf asks. His voice is oddly distant. 

Arthur wishes Eames was here. It’s stupid and selfish, as though Eames will want to hang around soothing Arthur through arranging to marry someone else. They have something now, something profoundly different than the not-quite-friendship of their days in the market place. There is a friendship now, a deep one despite the length of their acquaintance, and something else. Something that is inextricably twisted up with their plans to marry. If they lost that joint focus on the future everything would change. Arthur would not be able to bring himself to lean on Eames, and Eames would have no real reason to be that strength for him.

“Arthur, what’s wrong?” Yusuf is kneeling in front of Arthur, looking at him intently. 

“Sorry,” Arthur mutters. He has no business panicking about his marriage bed, not while everyone is already on edge about strange behaviours. “It just hit me that if Father doesn’t arrange for me to marry Eames, there will be someone else.”

Yusuf nods. “Hard enough to have to give Eames up without dealing with the burden of trying to learn to love another.”

To Arthur’s relief, Ariadne emerges. 

“So this is it,” Ariadne says as they walk down the corridor.

“One way or another,” Arthur agrees. He can see the question on Ariadne’s lips, grateful when something in her stops them from falling.

 

“Dom?” Arthur calls out, knocking on the door. “Dom, you’re needed.”

There’s no reply and Yusuf shakes his head when Arthur turns to him.

“He collected the spare keys to his inner chambers,” Yusuf says. “Yesterday he made me relinquish mine too.”

“Dom,” Ariadne says, desperation tinging her voice. “Father has called us to the library. Arthur needs you by his side.”

Arthur captures Ariadne’s hand before she can bang on the door. He’s touched, truly touched by her concern, but he knows he cannot be Dom’s priority over Mal. If Mal needs Dom, then Arthur cannot distract him.

“It’s okay, Ari,” Arthur says quietly, squeezing her hand.

“Arthur this is it for you,” Ariadne says. “This is everything you’ve been working towards. We need Dom, he’s the only one who really has a chance of swaying Father’s mind.”

“This isn’t it,” Arthur says softly. “This isn’t the end, it’s a fork in the road. If father decides Eames is best for the kingdom, then I marry Eames. If not, I will accept my duty and move forward from there.”

Ariadne looks at him with pain and pity in her eyes and not for the first time, Arthur wishes his sister could not read him so well. He presses a kiss to her hand and murmurs, “It’s not the end.”

“Not the end,” Ariadne echoes, not quite meeting Arthur’s eyes. “Some things cannot end like this.”

“Arthur, Ariadne, go on ahead,” Yusuf says. “I’ll wait for Dom.”

Arthur gives Yusuf a short nod. “Thank you.”

 

“Time was a meeting of this import would have warranted the whole family,” King Marnack says, looking over the family, Queen Alexandra, Ariadne and Arthur. When Robert’s marriage had been arranged, all the family currently in the country had attended, wives, husbands and even some of Arthur’s older nieces and nephews. The regret in his father’s voice is apparent. To him, tradition is not merely pomp and circumstance, but stability and continuity. Trust and fealty. Past, present and future combining to guide the way.

“I do not take offence,” Arthur says. “I know the value I hold for the kingdom and hope to serve my people and my family well, whatever the circumstance.”

King Marnack nods, slow and thoughtful, holding Arthur’s gaze. “I’m sure you do,” he says, tone neutral. Arthur cannot tell if he is pleased or angry. If he takes Arthur’s words at face value, or if he believes there to be some underlying message. “And perhaps in the circumstances a smaller gathering is better. Some matters are too private to fall on many ears.”

“Mal’s… indisposition will affect Arthur’s marriage, then?” Ariadne asks. Their mother winces at Ariadne’s boldness, but she is not reprimanded. 

“ _Every_ part of our lives are affected by Malorie’s sickness and the lies told to keep it from me,” King Marnack says, cold and more angry than Arthur can ever remember seeing from him. Arthur’s stomach clenches. He’s never lied to his father before Eames, not in any meaningful way. 

“Father I-”

King Marnack waves a hand, cutting Arthur off. “Your machinations, however convoluted, self-serving and foolish they were, did not deceive me,” King Marnack says. “Nor do I believe they were ever truly intended to, else I overestimated your skills as a political advisor.”

Arthur flushes hotly. He can feel his chest warm, the back of his neck burns and he’s certain even his ears are red. Stomach twisting and eyes prickling, Arthur’s jaw clenches and he doesn’t know if he wants to scream or cry or hit someone. This is humiliation unlike anything he’s ever experienced. Everything he’s worked for, all the respect he’s tried to earn from his father has apparently been flushed away in his campaign to have some say over his life. 

And worse, it seems his chances of having Eames have been swept away too. 

“What Dom has done, however, is inexcusable, and puts the whole country in danger,” King Marnack says. He levels a steady gaze at Arthur and Ariadne in turn. “Such secrets can never be kept within a family. We must be a strong united front, accepting direction from your king, and providing support and guidance where asked.”

“And if Dom had come to you?” Ariadne asks. King Marnack gives Ariadne a flat, emotionless look.

“Arrangements could have been made.”

For a moment Arthur thinks his heart has stopped. He shakes himself, trying to find comfort in the knowledge there’s no way his father would have done anything to hurt Mal. If nothing else it would be worse for the kingdom than the current situation. Mal is a powerful tool for Proclus. Which Eames, whatever happens, is not and will never be. Not once during this whole scheme has Arthur considered that he would be putting Eames in any sort of danger, but now, now he wonders.

“There is no point in dwelling on what might have been,” Arthur’s mother speaks up for the first time. King Marnack relaxes at his wife’s words, giving her a low, respectful nod.

“Your mother is right,” King Marnack says. “I have not brought you here to discuss Malorie nor reprimand you. We are here of course to speak of Arthur and how he can serve this family in his role as a husband. Unfortunately, this decision is deeply affected by the choices Dom has made. We need a distraction, urgently, and one that will stay in the forefront of the people’s mind for a long time.”

Arthur’s heart leaps to his throat. His father’s dismissal of his ‘convoluted, self-serving and foolish’ desire to wed Eames had been absolute, and yet how else could the marriage of a ninth-born prince be memorable enough to steal attention away from the madness of their crown princess?

King Marnack looks at Arthur, derision clear in his eyes. Never has his father looked at him so, scorn and pity and disappointment etched across the turn of his mouth, found deep in the darkness of his eyes. 

“You can marry the market boy.”

Marriage is a cornerstone of society. People speak about it with reverence, with respect for the power it can wield. Every time Arthur has spoken of marriage, it has been a tool for the betterment of society. 

That’s not all marriage is, not to some people. Perhaps not to most people.

In taverns, and late at night, in the backstreets where Arthur cannot go without a guard, with old friends and between youths, marriage is spoken of in different tones. There’s giggling, vulgar language and suggestive gestures. They don’t mean marriage the way Arthur does. The way he wishes it worked. The say marriage, and mean the marriage bed. The wedding night, and the nights that follow. The parts of the marriage that some think mean more than the vows and the ceremony. The parts that cement the alliance. 

Only, when a youth of seventeen says he wants to marry the cheesemaker’s daughter, with a drunken laugh and a leer at where her skirt has caught up, revealing a stretch of smooth, soft skin, he isn’t thinking about how it could benefit his father’s bakery. He’s thinking of that skin, of following it up further. Of exploring her body and joining with her in a way Arthur can’t understand. Can’t find desirable. And when the youngest daughter of a struggling noble family slides her fingers through her neighbour’s glossy blonde hair, and murmurs in her ear about a temporary alliance, dragging the girl’s hand into place on her hip, neither lady is thinking about the financial burden they can lift from their families. They might even be thinking of an alliance of a far more temporary nature. Which has always baffled Arthur still further, enduring a bed can surely only be worth it if in return you receive the comforts of a permanent companion.

When marriage is spoken of in the royal household, it has always been about duty, serving a higher purpose and strengthening the kingdom. Until now. _You can marry the boy._ The words ring in Arthur’s mind. _You can_ marry _the boy._ He might as well have said, _You can_ bed _the boy. You can_ have _him._ Take _him. Use him._

Arthur stills, staring past his father, mouth just open enough he can feel every breath drying his tongue. Stripping him of words, even as his mind fills with understanding. Arthur’s father thinks that’s all Eames is to him. A bedwarmer. Someone to be used and discarded. And his father cannot understand why Arthur has not simply taken Eames, as is his right, and gotten him out of his system. 

Arthur’s father thinks Arthur wants Eames, desires him, finds value in the cut of Eames’s figure and the warmth his body offers. He thinks that Arthur has engineered a way to keep Eames chained to his bed, ready and willing, at the expense of his kingdom.

Arthur wants to be sick.

 

The negotiations with the Eames family are far less dramatic than the royal family discussion leading up to them. It doesn’t surprise Arthur; public appearance matters more than family feelings. He isn’t allowed to see Eames, to contact him before he is brought into the castle. The longer Eames is away from Arthur, the more his thoughts to turn him. His father’s words echo in his mind and much as it sickens him, Arthur cannot stop thinking about how physically desirable Eames is. How warm his hands are, how strong his arms. Over and over his mind turns to the feel of the ink that stains his skin, the surprising smoothness that gave way to gooseflesh in response to Arthur’s touch. 

It heats something in Arthur, something deep in his chest, to think of how easily Eames moves into Arthur’s space, yet how careful he is before allowing any contact between them. Arthur thought himself indifferent to this, but there is no relief to thinking he fits in at last. His desire is completely selfish because while he wants, oh how he wants, he wants on his terms. This much and no more. It was better when Arthur thought himself above such human desires.

Now, sitting across from Eames, unable to do more than glance at him before their attention is drawn away, Arthur wants to be close to Eames and hates himself for his weakness.

King Marnack dominates the discussion, as can only be expected. Eames’s father seems delighted with every carefully phrased requirement, every thinly veiled suggestion Eames is a risk. But then, why should Mr Eames mind, he is getting everything he never dreamed to want. The bottom line is he wants Eames married to Arthur and doesn’t mind agreeing the alliance will last no more than a generation, happily swears Eames will keep Arthur in the lifestyle to which he is accustomed and will not let his eyes wander.

Arthur wonders what he would ask for, if he was in charge of this negotiation, if their social positions didn’t matter so. Letting his gaze drift back to Eames, all Arthur can think is he would demand they must always be permitted to sit together. That neither family can contrive to keep them apart. Of Eames, Arthur doesn’t want to make stipulations, not really. He wants Eames to stay, to not turn their life into the facade that is Eames’s parents marriage, to make Arthur laugh. But he wants it freely, and gladly given.

 

“Eames, there you are,” Arthur says, surprised. He had only come down to ask Yusuf if he had seen Arthur’s wayward fiancé, not expecting to find him in one of the servants areas. Yusuf is lounging against a wall, running a scrap of cloth absently through his hands, but Eames is sitting at a bench sketching. There’s a small crease of concentration between his brows that Arthur wants to tease him about. 

They haven’t spoken in days, not since the negotiations. Eames had been immediately being whisked away to be shown his new quarters. This is the first time the royal family has married so far below their station and there’s no protocol in place. He father doesn’t seem to know whether to treat him as a foreign diplomat or a prisoner. Lush rooms and a selection of servants have been put aside for Eames, servants well versed in subtly correcting errors in etiquette and customs. Yet for all the trappings of luxury, Eames has been kept away from the family areas, and kept under watch. The grumblings among the guards have reached Arthur’s ears, unhappy to be stuck indoors with a charge neither dangerous nor delicate. Arthur had wondered if his father was more concerned about valuables going missing or his youngest son’s virtue. But it’s neither really, more the fear of a scandal. Ultimately that is what’s at stake here: reputation. The royal family is nothing without it.

“Darling,” Eames says, sounding delighted to see Arthur. The warmth in his voice still takes Arthur aback. He can’t work out why Eames is always so pleased to see him. Eames holds out an arm, and Arthur walks over to him automatically, letting Eames curl an arm possessively around his waist, giving his hip a small, oddly pleasant squeeze. Arthur ignores the way Yusuf’s eyes are drawn to the action, the strange smile that comes to his face. “Yusuf here is filling me in on all of the castle gossip.”

“Don’t believe a word he says,” Arthur says. “Yusuf spends as little time as possible in any area of the castle where he might be expected to do some work. There’s no way he would have managed to pick up anything worth repeating.”

Eames laughs, and Arthur finds the sound terribly satisfying. Eames finds it so easy to be charming and funny, ingratiating himself with others with a skill Arthur can never hope to obtain, and Arthur takes every genuine smile he can coax out of Eames, every little burst of real laughter as a victory. Fake grins and polite chortles are not something Eames ever bothers with when it’s just Arthur around. Whether it’s because Arthur truly does amuse him, or because Eames feels comfortable enough around him, Arthur’s not sure. He doesn’t know which he hopes is the case.

“He spends time with you,” Eames points out. He’s abandoned his sketch in favour of playing with the complicated lacing of Arthur’s shirt, occasionally giving Arthur’s stomach an idle stroke. It’s almost soothing and that’s the only explanation Arthur can give for the way he has ended up half sitting on Eames’s lap, putting a hand on Eames’s thigh to keep himself steady.

“I grew up with him,” Yusuf says, smirking. “My father was the King’s valet.”

“Nepotism at it’s finest,” Eames says. 

“How else do you think he got the job?” Arthur says. One of Eames’s hands has crept inside Arthur’s shirt and he’s now brushing his fingers over Arthur’s bare skin. It makes Arthur want to kiss Eames, or curl up in his lap, rest his head on Eames’s shoulder and take a nap. 

“You’re lucky I don’t gossip, otherwise there might be some rumours going around as to the real reason we have a prince marrying a merchant’s son,” Yusuf says, nodding his head at Eames’s hand under Arthur’s shirt. Arthur flushes hotly and shoves Eames away from him, hurriedly retying his shirt as he walks across the room. 

It’s only Yusuf and Arthur truly does trust that what has just occurred will go no further than this room, but Arthur feels humiliated. Touching someone under their clothes has a blatantly sexual aspect to it, but somehow Arthur had missed it entirely. To him, the action had seemed very natural and pleasant and innocent. It had made him feel like Eames was fond of Arthur, nothing more. Yet one could hardly claim it was a simple act of friendship, something that was acceptable for public consumption. No, it’s much more likely that Eames was enjoying the position of being Arthur’s betrothed, secure in the knowledge that very soon they will be taking a marriage bed. Foolishly, Arthur realises he has been mistaking Eames’s touches as a sign of growing fondness, rather than a slow wooing, the prelude to the sex Eames expects to be having with Arthur.

“I have business to attend to,” Arthur says shortly, walking swiftly out of the room.

“Arthur?” Eames says, following him.

“Please return to what you were doing,” Arthur says. “I’m off to do something you would find very dull.”

“Arthur, just talk to me, please,” Eames says. He reaches out and grabs Arthur’s wrist, pulling him into the head butler’s study. Arthur goes with him, but tugs his hand away once the door is shut.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Arthur says, keeping his voice deliberately even. He’s still cursing himself for being such an idiot, but he can’t let himself appear vulnerable in front of Eames. Eames rolls his eyes.

“Which is why you didn’t just try and dramatically leave to do something vague,” Eames says. “Look, I’m sorry if I’ve put you in it, but I really don’t think Yusuf is going to go around saying we’ve been indiscreet.”

“I trust Yusuf,” Arthur says shortly. “If nothing else, he’s loyal.”

“Good,” Eames says. “Then I’m sorry if I’ve embarrassed you in front of him. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing.”

“Yusuf has known me since I was very young,” Arthur says, pleased his voice is at last starting to sound quite natural. “I doubt there’s much I could do in front of Yusuf I would find truly humiliating anymore.”

Eames cocks his head and considers Arthur. “Well we both know you didn’t marry me to get a leg over. I think it’s fairly obvious I’m far easier than that, especially for a pretty face like yours. So tell me what the problem is, love, and we’ll fix it,” Eames says, reaching out and laying a hand on Arthur’s arm. Arthur stiffens and Eames withdraws it immediately, frowning and failing to cover a hurt look. “Arthur?”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says softly.

“What on Earth for?” Eames asks, bewildered. “What terrible thing do you think you’ve done? I don’t care if you’ve slept with other people and I’m certainly not going to be offended if you _did_ marry me to get me into bed.”

Arthur shakes his head helplessly. He’s not sure how to make Eames understand why he’s been tricked into marrying someone like Arthur. Someone who can’t commit fully to their marriage, who won’t commit because there’s something wrong with him, deep down and unfixable. 

“I don’t want to have sex with you,” Arthur says. Eames’s face falls.

“Forgive me for asking, pet,” Eames says. “But that rather does raise the question of why you arranged to marry me.”

“It’s nothing personal,” Arthur says.

“Nothing personal,” Eames repeats, disbelief clear in his voice.

“I don’t want to have sex with anyone,” Arthur explains hastily, before Eames can voice the questions and accusations Arthur knows are sitting on the tip of his tongue.

“Oh,” Eames says. He sags a little and moves to sit in one of the chairs. “It’s not just that you find me repulsive.”

“No,” Arthur says.

“Well that’s at least something, darling,” Eames says and Arthur hates how much that little word means to him. It shouldn’t feel like he’s insides have been reinflated just because Eames will still use silly pet names with him. He shouldn’t have let himself grow to delight so much in Eames’s affection, but it happened so slowly, so subtly there had been no conscious decision from Arthur to allow this strange man’s fondness to mean the world to him. Until there had been the risk that Eames would stop, Arthur had no idea how much he had grown to depend on the casual tenderness implicit in these words.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Eames deep in thought, Arthur studying him carefully, trying to prepare himself for Eames’s anger and desperately hoping it isn’t followed by Eames’s rejection.

“So was it truly because I’m the son of a wealthy merchant?” Eames asks at last. “Does my appeal actually lie in the stability tying yourself to me could bring to the changing social order?”

“No,” Arthur says, cringing at the notes of pain Eames has allowed to enter his speech. “It was always you I wanted to marry.”

“Are you trying to tell me you fell in love with me at first sight?” Eames asks dubiously. Arthur shakes his head.

“No,” Arthur says. “I’ve always dreaded the idea of getting married, but it wasn’t until my sister Rachel got engaged that I realised what the problem was. Everyone started making little comments about how quickly Rachel would be making her marriage productive and the whole notion made me feel ill. The thought of having sex seemed deeply unpleasant to me, and sex is the cornerstone of marriage.”

“And then you met me?” Eames says. “But you don’t want to have sex with me either.”

Arthur shrugs helplessly. “No,” Arthur says. “At some point I began to notice that the thought of being intimate, of kissing and embracing and building a life with a man seemed more appealing to me, but that didn’t help me at all. Sex is just as big a part of unproductive marriages, and royals don’t marry unproductively.”

“Well I know how you get past the royal issue,” Eames says. “But I’m still a little fuzzy on how you thought marrying me was the solution to the sex problem. Although I’m always flattered to be considered a solution to a sex problem.”

“I saw you flirting with a man and I realised I could make it work,” Arthur says. “We could get married and you could have affairs.”

“Your father included a very serious fidelity clause into our marriage contract,” Eames points out.

“I trust you can be discreet, I certainly wouldn’t tell anyone, and if you limit yourself to men there no risk of anyone falling pregnant,” Arthur says.

“Yes, I do suppose little Eameses running around would give the game away, somewhat,” Eames says, sounding lighter, more amused, although he sobers quickly. “But you do realise that there’s bound to be some very put out highborns who would be more than happy to find evidence of my breach of promise and have our marriage annulled? It wouldn’t be safe for me to cheat on you.”

“There are presumably merchant families out there who are benefitting from our marriage,” Arthur says dismissively. “I’m sure you would be able to find someone who could be trusted.”

“And if I don’t want to cheat on you?” Eames asks.

“I haven’t asked for sexual faithfulness,” Arthur says.

“I don’t know what you’ve asked me for, pet,” Eames says.

Arthur thinks about this for a moment. When he first thought of arranging to marry Eames he had simply believed he had found a solution to his problem. Someone to sign into a marriage facade and keep him from being wed to a highborn lady of his parents’ choosing. But that’s not all that Arthur wants any more.

“Companionship,” Arthur says, although the word hardly feels big enough to encompass all the things he now needs from Eames.

“Do you mind the intimacies or was that for show?” Eames asks carefully. Arthur feels slightly warm.

“No,” Arthur says. His heart speeds up, guilt, pleasure and desire washing over him. Instinctively, Arthur wants to just dismiss Eames’s concerns without committing to anything further. But Eames deserves more than that. Arthur owes him better than that. “I don’t want… When you touch me, it’s different to how Ari hugging me would be. It’s never felt like you’re trying to arouse me or trying to get something from me, and I’ve _liked_. Enjoyed it for what it is, what it feels like it means. I didn’t know I would ever feel like that. My family touches me and it’s comfort, I shake hands with diplomats and it’s an exchange of trust. You touch me and my mind doesn’t know how to categorise it.” Arthur briefly closes his eyes, embarrassed by what he is about to admit. “I don’t want to categorise it, I just want more. And that scares me, because there’s a limit to what _more_ means. And I don’t know where that line lies.”

Eames stands and holds an arm out, a clear invitation which Arthur accepts, walking close enough for Eames to slide his arm around Arthur’s waist.

“Can I kiss you?” Eames asks. Arthur nods and Eames cups Arthur’s chin and presses their lips together for a soft, chaste kiss. It’s warm and fond and new and strange and Arthur isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or relieved when it stops. Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s forehead and moves both hands down to rest on Arthur’s hips. “All right, love?”

“Fine,” Arthur says. “Perfectly acceptable.”

Eames laughs and it feels so much more intimate when Arthur is close enough he could move to capture the sound with his own mouth.

“Your condescension, darling, is always appreciated,” Eames says. “I’m glad to have passed muster.”

Arthur ignores him in favour of splaying a hand over Eames’s chest, enjoying the feeling of firm muscle and the way Eames makes a little noise, half-breathing Arthur’s name. Eames takes Arthur’s other hand and rests it on Eames’s waist, a tacit invitation to explore to Arthur’s heart’s content. It’s too much for Arthur to process right then, so he just gives Eames a little pat before removing his hands.

“What do you ask of me?” Arthur says. “In this marriage.”

“Oh Arthur,” Eames says, sounding a little wistful.

“Oh,” Arthur says, suddenly realising that it’s possible Eames is no longer agreeable to the marriage now that sex is off the table. “It’s not too late to break off the engagement, of course. I’ll try my best, but it’s unfortunately unlikely that I can leave your family in a favourable position if we dissolve it. It would be a blow to my father’s pride if you rejected me, but if you give me some time I might be able-”

“Darling, stop,” Eames says, punctuating his command with a quick, firm kiss. “I don’t want to end things.”

“Good,” Arthur says, relieved, adding quickly, “I mean it would be complicated to try and undo everything.”

“Right,” Eames says, and suddenly he’s grinning at Arthur and Arthur’s not sure why. “It’s not that you have grown fond of me or anything.”

“I told you from the start I found you not unpleasant company,” Arthur says with a straight face.

“Be still my heart, pet,” Eames says. He shakes his head, still smiling. “I can’t believe you arranged for me to marry you because you realised I found men attractive and somehow didn’t think I would find _you_ attractive.”

Arthur stiffens. “Is that what you ask of me? Because I don’t know if I can give you that, Eames.”

“No, of course not, Arthur. I will never demand that from you,” Eames says. “I don’t know what to ask of you, to be honest. Companionship, honesty, not to kill me in my sleep?”

“I will do my best,” Arthur says. He feels as though a weight has been lifted by Eames’s promise, and it seems natural to kiss Eames back and let himself be folded into Eames’s arms, taking comfort from the security and support they offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Certain betas, naming no imperfect skies, thought this chapter could be improved by the use of key youtube videos and gifs at key moments. For an enhanced reading of this chapter:
> 
> When Arthur realises that if his father isn’t about to arrange for Arthur to marry Eames, he will arrange for Arthur to _marry someone else_ , follow [this link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rfh4Mhp-a6U). 
> 
> And immediately after Arthur is told: "You can marry the market boy,” please enjoy [this gif](https://media2.giphy.com/media/BtrEG2zE1nRJK/200w.gif).


	9. Engagement

Arthur isn’t avoiding Eames. To do so would be quite a feat, actually. King Marnack apparently views his future son-in-law with deep suspicion, or perhaps he is trying to punish Arthur, and so Eames remains locked away in his guest quarters. If Arthur wanted to avoid Eames, he would have to be aware of the times and places they are likely to run into each other, and the simple fact is no such temporal spaces exist. The fact that he does not make an effort to deliberately defy his father’s wishes and seek Eames out is not _avoidance_ , even it does lead to Arthur spending less time in servants areas, disused parlours and other places he shouldn’t be anyway.

The engagement party plans shape quickly and shift into a list of chores. Arthur is briefly consulted, colour schemes and guest lists passed under his nose for just long enough to read. There’s a deep, nagging awareness that Eames is probably not even being given this token appearance of involvement. It is this reason, and this reason alone, that Arthur finds his thoughts turn to Eames as he sits and writes to-do lists and invitations all day. The theme of the party appears to be conforming to traditions, as though to balance the complete removal from convention of the union it celebrates. It’s a wise move and if this was anyone else, Arthur would approach it with the same tactic. But this is Eames, and he has too much to offer the kingdom to be buried in old customs.

Sighing, Arthur gives one last glance at the menu, puts a neat line through _spiced chocolate cakes_ and leans back in his chair. One of Eames’s paintings now hangs in Arthur’s study, near the door, just out of eyesight if Arthur is sitting properly. As it is, Arthur can find it easily when he needs an escape from work. It’s not an original piece, Eames had told Arthur, explaining that he rarely works from scratch. There had been no shame in Eames’s eyes, just wry self-awareness as he told Arthur his talent lay in mimicry. Before Arthur could protest, Eames had made some joke about Arthur being the brains and Eames being the beauty in the operation and somehow the conversation had shifted. 

The brushstrokes are bold, bringing an energy to the painting Arthur’s never seen before. Art has never been more than a required part of the decor, no more significant than drapes or rugs, something Arthur wouldn’t notice unless there was a problem with it. Now Arthur looks at it and thinks of Eames, which is not really much better.

The problem isn’t, of course, that Eames deserves a better party. Traditional outfits and stodgy company were always going to be part of the deal. Eames knew what it meant to marry royal. What he didn’t know he was signing up for was a husband like Arthur. He won’t back out, not now, not even if he could. Arthur’s not afraid of that, not when he can still feel the press of Eames’s lips against his. A promise, a vow, a willingness to give this a chance and an assurance he would give it his best all in one. In the weeks they have known each other, Arthur has misread and misunderstood Eames’s touches, found more meaning in certain things and not enough in others, but in this he is certain. Eames is committed, and while he might desire Arthur, he also likes him, genuinely and completely separate to these more base wants.

Putting his menu proposal aside, Arthur finds a spare piece of parchment and writes _Making Eames Happy_. 

 

Arthur’s not-avoidance of Eames works. The planning for the party takes Ariadne’s attention just as Mal’s takes Dom’s and so Arthur is left to brood. His list so far comprises of pastries, art supplies, and jokes about severing appendages. Part of King Marnack’s approach is speed, not wanting to give people time to speculate over what is happening, determined to keep gossip to a minimum and focus on having Eames charm the people. The engagement party is set for a mere fortnight after the agreement was signed, and apparently Eames has spent this time in etiquette lessons. 

Though they have not met in person for this period, Arthur has been receiving little notes from Eames, expressing irritation over being asked to kiss ladies’ cheeks more aloofly and delight in cake eating lessons. Arthur has replied in turn, sarcastic commentary on two hour meetings arguing the colour of table cloths and late nights perfecting his signature as the invite list grows impossibly long. No mention is made of their conversation, nor does Eames allude to the discussions they will need to have. It’s hard to tell from Eames’s appalling script and lazy grammar, if Eames is showing tact or doesn’t see the issues facing them. As much as Arthur’s heart hopes for the latter, his head hopes Eames is aware not all has been solved by their tentative agreement. A problem acknowledged is halfway to one solved, after all. An expression Arthur has heard from his father too often of late. 

The evening of their coming out to the world as a promised couple comes quickly and before Arthur can process what is happening, he finds himself in the waiting parlour above the ballroom. His new trousers fit sublimely and the extra tailoring he demanded for his waistcoat sets his figure off well. There’s a full length mirror in the parlour that Arthur takes full advantage of, focusing his energies on straightening lines and smoothing hair. A better use of his time than wringing his hands and fretting about the outcome of the evening, at any rate.

“Arthur.” Eames’s voice takes him by surprise. It’s deeper, huskier than Arthur remembers. The amused lilt is absent entirely. “You look- you look ready to let the Lady Greys of the world know that marrying street rats can improve not only one’s complexion, but also one’s country.”

Arthur desperately wonders what Eames had meant to say, what had made his voice cut off and return, thick with humour covering up something else. He takes one last look at himself in the mirror. For the first time he sees not just the pleasing way his clothes make him look put together and powerful. His eyes catch the emphasis of his waist, giving his shoulders breadth. The fabric of his trousers doesn’t merely give his legs length, his stature strength, but they curve around his seat, they follow his waist down to narrow hips. Arthur sways, just for a moment, skin heating and eyes squeezing shut, before facing composure, muscle memory doing what conscious thought cannot. Eames had wanted to say something sexual, flirty and admiring.

“I see they managed to take a razor to your scruff,” Arthur says. He wants to say, _Don’t censor yourself. I don’t mind hearing what you think of me._ But he is a coward and deeply grateful Eames stopped himself. Intellectually, Arthur knows it should be flattering to hear such compliments from Eames. He admires Eames and wants Eames to approve of him, in all aspects. There’s no question of trust, Arthur knows Eames would never act on any comment, not without Arthur explicitly saying it’s okay. It’s just too much right now, to have any thoughts given form. 

Eames gives a mournful sigh and rubs a hand over his clean jaw. Arthur wants to do the same. As though that wouldn’t complicate things impossibly further. “They plied with me those sticky toffees, and pinned me down when I couldn’t defend myself.” 

“And the outfit?” Arthur says, looking Eames up and down. He looks good, somehow respectable and wild at once. A tamed creature, his power held at bay, muscles wrapped in velvet and brocade, but by his design, his decision. Ready to burst free at a moment’s notice.

“Ariadne told me I looked dashing,” Eames admits, letting false shame colour his voice. “I was easy prey after that. Didn’t even question the lack of ruffles.”

“You look appropriate,” Arthur allows.

“Be still my beating heart.” Again, the words are coloured by jest, and Arthur’s shoulders loosen. He can feel himself relax back into a comfortable rhythm. Eames isn’t going to push, and right now Arthur needs to have this with Eames, this back and forth, fondness and affection without demand. Whether Eames means to or not, he is giving Arthur what he most wants, and the least Arthur can do is try to be honest and affectionate in return.

“You look very handsome,” Arthur says, and without any dry condescension to his voice he sounds embarrassingly shy.

“Thank you,” Eames says, quiet and pleased and just a touch unsure. Arthur circles him, looking over him in the same way he would a proposal put before him.

“They’ve tailored the suit well, although the colour is a bit bland for you,” Arthur says. “And the style is too old-fashioned. They should have put you in whatever the young courtiers are wearing these days. Something with a bit more drama.”

“You can stop any time,” Eames says, grinning now. “I won’t be held responsible if I come over all faint and miss our grand entrance.”

While Arthur had circled him, Eames had straightened, but he’s sunk back into his usual more languid pose. Only, his arms aren’t moving, to gesture or fiddle with whatever he finds in his pockets. They’re unnaturally still, not stifled by the more fitted outfit, but held that way deliberately. Arthur flushes. Eames is holding himself back from reaching for Arthur. 

“Your usual clothes suit you better,” Arthur says. He moves deliberately closer to Eames, closer than propriety would allow, but not so far Eames couldn’t smoothly step away. He doesn’t. “They are hideous, of course, and nothing matches, but you look like you.”

“If I look handsome when I don’t look like me, and better when I do,” Eames says, sounding absolutely delighted. Still his arms remain where they are, though Arthur feels they should be reaching for his shoulder, or his waist. Some point of contact. “Why Arthur, I think you have missed your calling as a flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Arthur says, sounding more mulish than defensive. Eames is going to make him take the first step. Possibly steps afterwards. Arthur doesn’t know what he’ll do if he is in charge of leading them in this.

“No, I know,” Eames says, voice going impossibly soft and gentle. Arthur’s jaw tightens and he almost steps back. He’s getting angry with Eames. Irritated that Eames thinks he needs to be treated with such care. Touched and grateful and furious all at once. 

Arthur slides a hand along Eames’s jaw, terrified and determined all at once. His other hand makes it’s way to Eames’s hip. “And just because I chose not to flirt doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be excellent at it.”

“Oh?” Eames says, still holding himself infuriatingly still. 

“It’s for the good of the country that I do not flirt, Mr Eames,” Arthur says. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. At some point he will need to let go of Eames’s jaw, or use his hold to bring them closer. It can’t just sit there until it grows sweaty and uncomfortable for them both. At least he knows what to do with his mouth; words he has been trained to wield. “I could bring a knight to his knees, a lady to a swoon, with nothing more than a few whispered words and a carefully timed glance.”

“Arthur,” Eames says and Arthur startles, releasing Eames’s jaw, hand dropping to his shoulder. Eames sounds almost pained, which is not what Arthur is aiming for. To his relief, Eames does touch him at last, a hand sliding into place on Arthur’s hip. Arthur doesn’t understand how such an intimate touch can be a gesture of lust, not when the weight of Eames’s hand grounds him, seems to ground Eames too, and the pressure of his fingers serves to link them, combine their experiences into one single point of shared touch. It’s too deliberate, too purposeful to be the action of mindless passion. Arthur lets his head drop until his forehead rests against Eames’s, an apology and permission all at once. 

A knock at the door makes them both jump. Arthur steps back immediately, but Eames lets his hand linger for a few moments before Arthur calls out admittance to the servant.

“Shall we?” Arthur says, offering his arm to Eames.

“I’m game if you are,” Eames says, grinning easily. He hooks his arm into Arthur’s.

The ballroom is packed full, more people than Arthur has ever seen in it. He knew the guest list had exploded beyond normal, but a list of names read alone in a cool office is so utterly separate from the mass of bodies before him, moving almost as one, as though the floor of the ballroom has come alive. The room is hot, a wall of warmth hitting Arthur even standing at the top of the grand staircase leading down into the room. Conversations stop immediately as Arthur and Eames are announced, the musicians smoothly finishing their song, but it’s still far from quiet. People shuffle and cough, their clothes brushing against each other and Arthur is sure he can even hear people breathe. The room seems to make an exhale of uncertainty, a gasp of wonder as Arthur and Eames smile down at them. Yes, Arthur tries to say with the flash of teeth, this is really happening and it’s okay.

It takes a while before people realise they need to be making room for the first dance, and then longer still before the space can be made. People are pressed against the walls, spilling out into the balconies and gardens that connect to the ballroom. The numbers are partly due to the king’s plan to make this alliance as open and public as possible, so the people feel they are involved in this deviation from protocol, not being tricked by the royal family. The rest is to be blamed on Eames, at least indirectly. His family, of course, needed to be invited, as well as a number of other prominent merchants. This union is to represent the acceptance of this new class of people into highborn society, or at least that is it’s official purpose. 

Arthur leads Eames onto the dance floor and pulls him into position, his hand on Eames’s waist, Eames’s on his shoulder. Within a few steps it becomes clear that Eames is not a natural dancer. 

“Breathe, listen to the music, don’t look down, and remember I’m in charge,” Arthur whispers, firming his hold on Eames. 

“What’s the penalty for stepping on the royal toes?” Eames asks, eyes drifting down.

“Look at me,” Arthur says sharply. “If you step on my toes, I will take yours.”

“Threatening me with dismemberment again?” Eames asks. To Arthur’s relief, he can feel Eames relaxing in his hold, letting Arthur push and pull him across the dance floor. Eames is familiar enough with the steps Arthur thinks he can make this look good. Where Eames was given lessons in dancing, Arthur received lectures about the impression the dancing had to make. When they are together, Arthur and Eames must look strong, a team that can work well together. Arthur must of course be in charge, but Eames must appear his equal. A comfortable compatibility must not give way to any impression of affection or familiarity. This is a match based on logic, not, Arthur’s father had reminded him, youthful dalliances and emotional impulses.

“Forgive me for trying to keep the romance alive,” Arthur says. “I thought it would appeal to your Cobolian sensitivities.”

“We’re in Proclus now, darling,” Eames says. “Such indulgences are not looked kindly upon.”

“I must confess that with grievous bodily harm off the table, I’m left will little to talk about,” Arthur says. He flashes Eames a quick smile before turning it on the public. The song is nearly halfway over and he will have to hand Eames over to others soon, his family and then courtiers they think will react favourably to Eames. 

“Pastries?” Eames offers. “The shocking rise in crime in the marketplace?”

“You know, it’s the strangest thing, but by all reports pickpocketing and art forgery is down to an all time low,” Arthur says. “Two weeks ago it all stopped, as if by magic.”

“Pet,” Eames says, his voice warming with such delight Arthur is hard pressed not to smile again. “I fear you overestimate my skill in these areas.”

“Who said anything about you?” Arthur says dismissively.

“Now that you mention it I’m sure the royal guard have mentioned how much more effective they can be when they are not chasing after spoiled princes.” Eames stumbles, just enough that they their shoulders touch, Arthur’s hand sliding around and pulling Eames closer. They righten themselves immediately.

“Spoiled?” Arthur demands. The song finishes but Arthur is too caught up in his mock outrage he forgets to let go of Eames until the sound of applause reaches them.

“Spoiled,” Eames confirms. He presses and kiss to Arthur’s hand, thanking him for the dance, and then Dom is there to sweep Eames away. 

“Your most royal majesty.” Eames’s father hurries to Arthur’s side, grabbing his hand and kissing it as his son had done. “They tell me it is now my honour and privilege to dance with you.”

“The honour is all mine,” Arthur says easily.

“I can’t believe how perfect you and Eamesie looked on the dance floor,” Mr Eames gushes. “You would never guess my boy didn’t grow up on an estate, surrounded by courtiers and princes.”

“He does look fine this evening,” Arthur agrees easily. Conversation flows easily between them and before long Arthur is being thanked and handed to Eames’s mother.

“Oh your majesty,” Nicole says, tightening her grip on Arthur’s hand. “You sweet dear boy. I don’t want to monopolise the conversation, but I just have to tell you have pleased I am for you and for Eamesie.”

With some uncertainty, Arthur thanks her. “Your son is very special,” he adds. Talking to Eames’s mother unnerves him, knowing what he does about her marriage. And now she thinks Arthur has saved her son from being subjected to a cold, loveless match, as others in Proclus are. The least he can do is assure her that he does value Eames, whatever else happens between them.

“A mother always thinks that, but to have it confirmed by a prince…” Nicole trails off, choosing instead to simply beam at Arthur. It’s Eames’s smile. Not his usual smirk, but the one that comes out when Arthur manages to truly delight him, with something absurd or sweet. 

“I just hope I don’t let him down,” Arthur says. He’s almost overwhelmed with this need to give Nicole honesty, raw and unfettered.

“You won’t,” she says, almost dismissively. “Not in any way that really matters. You’ve already shown Eames what matters most of all. A prince breaking all the rules to marry a merchant’s son. He cannot misunderstand that.”

Yes he can, Arthur wants to say. This isn’t one of the fairy tales Nicole grew up with. It’s so much more complicated and tenuous. There’s no sense telling Nicole she is wrong. It would be needlessly hurtful.

“If our summons to see the king had come out of nowhere, I don’t know what I would have thought. Proclus may be my new home, and I do love it, but sometimes it confuses me,” Nicole says. She gives a dreamy sigh. “But then you came down to our home, humbled yourself to Eames’s father and proved this marriage has nothing to do with rank. Do you know the term ‘star-crossed lovers’?”

Arthur shakes his head. Nicole smiles and lifts her hand from Arthur’s shoulder, patting his cheek fondly. 

“No I don’t suppose you would.” She sounds wistful, and Arthur is grateful when the song ends. “I look forward to having you as a son-in-law.”

“I am confident you will help keep our hearth fires warm for many years to come,” Arthur says carefully. Nicole laughs.

“Did Eames tell you to say that?” she asks.

“He said it was a traditional Cobolian saying.”

“I will give you some advice, my dear boy,” Nicole says. “Eames lies.”

 

“How many more dances am I expected to suffer?” Eames groans and Arthur winces as he moves his feet out of Eames’s way.

“This is the last one,” Arthur says. “We’re completing the circuit. You’ve danced with all of my brothers and sisters and now you are back with me. I’m sure someone explained the custom to you.”

“They didn’t mention how many siblings you have,” Eames says. “Or that I would dance with their husbands and wives too. And isn’t George your cousin?”

“I think my father might be stretching the custom a bit,” Arthur admits. “Really make it sink in that we’re doing this properly.”

Eames nods, face drawn. Arthur pulls him in, dancing closely enough Eames can rest his check against Arthur’s. It’s bending all the rules of propriety Arthur has been instructed to keep, but the dance floor is packed. They keep bumping into other couple’s. No one is going to look at them askance. They’re both too tired for further conversation, and they limp their way through the rest of the song. As soon as the last note plays, Arthur pulls Eames through the crowd, out of the ballroom and into a private balcony. Only the royal family is permitted to be in this part of the castle during formal events. 

“How did my family treat you?” Eames asks, sinking gratefully onto a stone bench. Arthur heads over to the table where a jug of water and some bread and cheese have been left for them. The servants know this is one of the favoured places for the family to retreat.

“Your father is over the moon, and your mother thinks we’re a couple for the storybooks,” Arthur says, piling bread and cheese onto a plate. 

“My family adores you, I already know that,” Eames says. “I meant my cousins.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. He pours two cups of water and tries to work out how to respond. Eames’s connection to Cobol was his only redeeming feature, in King Marnack’s eyes. Especially when it turned out he was related to a few established land-owners, alongside merchants and lowborns. “They- they were polite.”

Eames laughs, low but loud in the cool still night air. “I barely know them, pet,” Eames says. “Don’t worry about offending me.”

“It’s not that,” Arthur says. He sighs, turning back to Eames. “They’re just very suspicious about the timing. So soon after another attempt to secure the alliance failed.”

Arthur brings the plate and water over, placing them on the bench between them. Being close to Eames had been so easy when they were dancing, where the rules and expectations were clear. Out here, away from prying eyes and schedules and expectations, anything could happen. And Arthur’s not sure how to wrangle an ‘anything’ into an acceptable ‘something’.

“I’ve only been publicly engaged to your for two hours,” Eames says. “How have cousins I’ve never met before already found a new political agenda in our marriage?”

He sounds amused by the thought, Arthur notes with relief. There’s not much he could offer if Eames was actually upset. “Welcome to my world,” Arthur says, rolling his eyes.

“At least no one will ever work out the real reason you engineered this,” Eames muses. 

“No,” Arthur says, carefully. Eames smirks at him and Arthur’s heart unclenches.

“Who would ever believe that you wanted to marry me so you could not have sex with me,” Eames says, winking at Arthur.

“Have you-“ Arthur blurts, stopping himself before he can finish the question. He can’t ask that, it’s not fair on Eames, and he doesn’t know if he even wants to know the answer. Which answer is worse.

Eames lifts the plate that sits between them and places it carefully on the ground. He slides along until he is less than a hand’s width away. Arthur can feel the warmth from his skin, and it makes the air feel cool. He shivers, leaning towards Eames.

“Have I slept with anyone?” Eames asks, holding Arthur’s gaze. “Yes.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. It’s not a surprise. How can it be a surprise? Arthur’s whole plan was based on the belief that Eames would be comfortable sleeping with people outside of marriage. And he knows Eames is someone who desires sex. Why wouldn’t Eames, attractive, of marriage age for several years now, charming and flirtatious, seek out companionship? And yet Arthur feels like he’s been doused with cold water. 

“Arthur?”

“What- what was it like?” Arthur asks. He’s not sure where the question had come from, but suddenly he’s desperate to know. Morbid curiosity and a strange hopefulness mix up within him. Perhaps if he knew what it was like, perhaps if Eames could make him understand, Arthur would be able to do that for him.

Eames searches Arthur’s face and frowns. Slowly, carefully, Eames raises his hand and cups Arthur’s cheek. “Arthur, it’s okay,” Eames says. “I know you don’t want that.”

“But you do,” Arthur says. “You thought that was going to be a part of our marriage. It’s not fair for me to just take it away from you. Especially since you can’t sate that need with someone else.”

“So it’s not okay if my guilt stops me from wanting to sleep with other people, but it’s fine for you to feel guilty because you don’t want sex?” Eames asks. He gives a strangled laugh.

“I wouldn’t-“ Arthur takes a deep breath. Speaking without thinking is something that was trained out of him almost as soon as he was able to speak. So many things fall by the wayside with Eames, but this is getting him nowhere. “That’s not why I asked.” He drops his head so their foreheads are pressed together. With Eames, touch can communicate more easily than speeches. They might understand each other better now, but Eames holding himself back from Arthur is causing confusion that has never been between them before. “Please. Let me understand you. Let me understand what it feels like.”

Eames lifts his head and kisses Arthur’s forehead, letting his lips linger through several deep, considering breaths. “Okay,” Eames says. His hand finds Arthur’s and he twines their fingers together. As before, all of Eames’s movements are slow enough Arthur can move away if he needs to. It’s frustrating and makes Arthur wish Eames wouldn’t treat him so delicately. But Eames can’t have that sort of confidence without either hurting Arthur, or knowing what would be too much. Something Arthur doesn’t know for himself. “I’ve flirted for longer than I knew what it was I was doing. What it meant.”

“Oh please,” Arthur says, smiling as he pictures it. “I’m sure when you were two years old you knew exactly what to say, how to smile, to get what you wanted.”

“Well I didn’t know how to pick pockets back then,” Eames says. “I don’t know when I first realised I wanted someone more intimately, wanted more from them than just company. Growing up, there were other children I found myself fixated on. From whom I wanted attention, wanted them to react to me. It didn’t matter if they were annoyed, as long as I knew their whole world had been narrowed down to me, if only for that moment. We were always allowed to run a little wild in the market place, and I found myself enamoured of other trader’s children, of the blacksmith’s son and the cheesemaker’s daughter. There’s certainly never been any fear I would have a preference when it came to marriage.”

“We didn’t have much to do with other children, growing up,” Arthur says. “Or at least, I didn’t. I suppose there were always cousins and second cousins, children of diplomats and visiting royals. I preferred to spend time with Ari and Yusuf, and Dom when he had time for us. I only spent time with Robert and the others when mother made us. I don’t… I’ve never thought it had anything to do with not wanting people in other ways.”

“Do you think it does?” Eames asks. Arthur shrugs. 

“I don’t think so,” Arthur says, slowly. “It was more that I knew everything I needed to know about Ari and Yusuf and I like them. There seemed little point in wasting time with other people.”

Eames laughs, his whole body moving with it until he is pressed firmly against Arthur. It takes the sting out of Eames’s amusement.

“Always so pragmatic,” Eames says, and his voice has that unerring fondness back in it.

“So you pulled hair and irritated people until they fell deeply in six-year-old love with you,” Arthur says. “You’re not really selling me on the sex thing yet.”

“Darling, I’m not trying to,” Eames says firmly. Arthur pulls on Eames’s hand, not to get him to release his hand or try to move him. He just wants to remind Eames that they are holding hands. That Arthur is here and he is Eames’s, as they have just very publicly declared.

“No, I know,” Arthur says quickly. “I just meant get on with it.”

“Bossy,” Eames says, smiling. “By the time I was sixteen I knew what flirting meant, I knew what I wanted to get out of it and I was less fussy about who I tried to get the attention of.”

“Didn’t it matter?” Arthur asks, confused. 

“Maybe it’s better to say I wasn’t so easily distracted by one person,” Eames says. “I had preferences, people I liked better, things I looked for. They were just quite broad. And you have to remember I wasn’t looking for someone to marry, just someone to share a bed with, for one or two nights.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. It doesn’t quite make sense to him. But he supposes that even if one could separate sex from marriage, than there was still always the risk of growing overly attached. Short-term liaisons make a certain amount of sense, if one feels the urge for companionship without marriage. “So you found someone who felt the same?”

“Eventually,” Eames says. He plays with Arthur’s fingers for long enough that Arthur knows he is hedging.

“I’m not going to think less of you,” Arthur offers softly, hoping this is true. He doesn’t want to let things from the past affect how he sees Eames, but it’s so much to get his head around.

“It’s more embarrassing than shameful,” Eames admits.

“Because it took a while to find someone who wanted you that way?” Arthur asks, confused. He can’t imagine Eames was an unattractive youth, or an unpleasant and disagreeable sort.

“No, I turned down a lot of people,” Eames says, “said because I feared they would fall in love with me and be left to pine when they married someone else.”

Arthur can feel his mouth curl, unbidden, into a delighted smile, but he ignores it in favour of a sudden need to be closer to Eames. He reaches for Eames’s jaw and pulls their faces close together. Quickly, before he has time to become nervous, Arthur presses his lips to the corner of Eames’s mouth. As he goes to move away, Eames stops him, leaning back in. Eames knows how to line their mouths up properly, how to move his lips against Arthur’s to coax them into kissing back. Even when they finish kissing, Eames doesn’t move back. Arthur has always thought of a kiss being a very clear cut action, similar to a handshake. Move in, lips touch, end. Sitting here, and breathing in the air that Eames exhales feels a bit like the kiss is still going. And suddenly Eames is touching Arthur’s bottom lip with his thumb, a reverent touch, before bringing their lips back together, a much briefer caress. Almost a small goodbye. Eames does move out of kissing range at that, so maybe it was a signal that the kiss was over?

“Glad to see you approve of my nobility,” Eames says, and he sounds amused, but his voice has that faintly husky quality to it again, as it did when he saw Arthur’s outfit for the first time. Which is somehow both pleasing and yet worrisome at the same time. 

“So who were you not worried about breaking the heart of?” Arthur asks.

“It was more that the families who were looking to marry their children young had done so, and by this point it was not the most pressing concern on my mind,” Eames says. “Which led me to arranging to meet Wilkin in his father’s woodshed one afternoon.”

“And?”

“It’s hard to explain. I wanted this, wanted him so badly. Every time he touched me it made me feel better and worse all at once. Spurred me on, made me want more and more. I liked Wilkin well enough, but right then and there I couldn’t get enough of him. He was the most important thing to me, but not him as much as him touching me and him letting me touch him in return,” Eames says. “I can’t think of anything else to compare it with. It’s not the best I’ve ever felt, or the most meaningful experience of my life. But it was something unlike any other and I loved it.”

“Was that the only-” Arthur starts to ask.

“No,” Eames says. “There were a few others, over the years. All different, but a similar sort of thing. Less desperation and more passion, perhaps. Some better than others. Some meant a bit more at the time, but it was never love and it was never meant to be.”

Arthur wraps his other hand over where he and Eames are still joined. He wants to say something between thank you and sorry, something that promises Arthur will give Eames what these others didn’t, without promising more than he can give. 

“Arthur!” Yusuf bursts onto the balcony. He’s breathing heavily, his hair is wild and there’s a red mark on his face.

“Yusuf, what’s wrong?” Arthur asks, leaping up and rushing towards him.

“It’s Mal,” Yusuf gasps. “I had to- I had to I swear.”

He’s panting and sweating and Arthur thinks he might be about to cry.

“Yusuf, calm down, tell me what happened,” Arthur says, firmly.

“Here,” Eames says, handing Yusuf a glass of water. Yusuf takes a mouthful and then thrusts it back at Eames.

“Dom asked me to stay with Mal, during the party,” Yusuf says, speaking more slowly, though he’s no calmer. “She couldn’t come of course, and we figured it wouldn’t be too obvious. So I stayed, and we were in the room with the children. She ignored me for the first couple of hours, but then when James woke and I changed him, she started shouting at me. James was screaming by this point and Philipa started crying and crying and I didn’t want to put James down, I couldn’t, he wouldn’t stop screaming.”

“Yusuf, we believe you,” Arthur says, trying to sound calm despite the sick twist in his stomach. “Are the children alright? Is Philipa alright?”

“Mal grabbed her,” Yusuf says. “She yelled at Philippa to be quiet, said she wasn’t real and when Philippa wouldn’t stop Mal threw her across the room.”

“Yusuf, is she alright?” Arthur feels like screaming, but he knows it won’t help.

“Yeah, she’s not hurt, not badly,” Yusuf says. “I put James down and tried to restrain Mal. She fought me, kicking and biting, like a wild animal. I knocked her out, checked on the children and came for you. We have to find Dom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on holidays again and the next two chapters are written and being edited at the moment, so might be able to update weekly for a bit. I'm definitely nearing the end though! I think it will be about 12 chapter, might also have an epilogue, let's see how it goes.


	10. Oaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating and tags have changed to reflect the fic as a whole, as it is now complete. Posting a bit early because I am going to Amsterdam tomorrow! Updates will be roughly weekly, depending on my internet access as I am travelling for the next few weeks. Thank you so much for sticking with me and all of your lovely comments!

Arthur surges through the crowd, pushing blindly past people. At first, he’s moving too quickly, too urgently for anyone to realise who he is, but it doesn’t take long for the muttered irritations to turn into gasped apologies. A touch, low on his back makes him stop and twist around. Eames is standing right behind him.

“We’ll find Dom,” Eames murmurs. “But speed won’t help us as much as staying calm. Attention drawn to this is the last thing they need.”

Having a partner to support him is what Arthur thought he wanted out of this marriage, but right now he can’t help but hate Eames a little bit. Resent him for making them waste even one more second on appearances when Dom needs to _know_ , needs to get to his children. It chafes knowing Eames is right, that Yusuf is back with Mal and James and Philippa are safe, whether this takes them five minutes or five hours. No amount of _knowing_ can slow the blood racing through his veins, urging him to take action. 

“Of course,” Arthur says tightly and holds out his arm for Eames to take. Together, they move with greater ease through the mass of bodies, though it’s much slower. Everyone wants to be acknowledged by Arthur, to be able to say they spoke to Eames. It’s precisely what Arthur’s father wanted, but this success is meaningless when Arthur can see Dom, smiling and laughing with no idea what has happened. Even polite greetings and dismissals take time and it’s over half an hour before they manage to get to Dom.

“Arthur,” Dom greets cheerfully. Dom’s valet has dressed him well, given him creams and paints to cover the signs of exhaustion and stress that usually plague him. For the first time in far too long, Arthur thinks Dom looks genuinely relaxed, in a way the glass of wine in his hand cannot entirely account for. Arthur thinks he knows a little of what Dom is feeling, the relief that comes from a secret revealed, the sense that it is no longer entirely his problem to bear. All at oncea to, Arthur wishes it had taken longer to cross the room. Wishes more conversational demands had been made of him, to give Dom a few more minutes of contentment.

“Dom,” Arthur says. He jerks his head towards the servants entrance closest to them. “You simply must try these fruit pastries I’ve found.”

Instantly, Dom straightens. “My sweet tooth demands to be sated. Lead the way.”

Arthur squeezes Eames’s hand and leans in to whisper in his ear, “Distract them for us?”

Eames gives a tight smile and nods. He lets go of Arthur and scans the room before walking towards one of the more ostentatiously dressed ladies, asking her to dance. 

Dom and Arthur move behind the crowd forming around Eames and at last find themselves in a cool and quiet corridor. 

“Dom, it’s Mal,” Arthur says. “Yusuf is back with her, but he came to tell us she’s had another turn.”

“What happened? Is she okay?” Dom asks.

“Yusuf had to knock her out,” Arthur says. “She tried to hurt the children.”

All the blood drains from Dom’s face. He collapses back against the wall. “No,” he says, voice faint. “She wouldn’t. She _loves_ the children. Whatever else is going on in her head, Mal is a good mother.”

Arthur just watches him, at a complete loss. What can he say to that? She was a good mother, before James, before her illness. She adored Philippa and was so excited to be having a second child. It had looked as though Dom and Mal might end up with a larger family than their parents.

“She didn’t want to hurt Pippa, I’m sure,” Arthur says. “She’s… confused.”

Dom shakes his head. “I never thought they were in danger. It’s been weeks since she recognised them as real. I don’t know if she ever thought James was real. She was completely convinced they were a trick, something to keep her from waking up. But she’s their mother, whatever else was going on, whatever doubt she had about them, no mother could take the chance that she could hurt her babes.” Dom looks over at Arthur, and tears are sliding down his cheeks. “I left them with her, Arthur. I’ve left them with her over and over. They’ve been in danger for weeks and I-“

“No,” Arthur says firmly, cutting him off. Emotionally, Arthur has no idea what he can offer Dom, but he knows Dom hasn’t been completely reckless. “You’ve always left someone else with them. Yusuf was with them, he kept them safe.”

“I only left Yusuf because I knew she wouldn’t nurse James when he needed it, wouldn’t make sure Philippa was warm and James dry,” Dom says. “I knew she would just ignore them, treat them with less care than a doll.”

“They’re okay,” Arthur says. “Right now they are safe and now you know.”

“What do I do now, Arthur?” Dom looks at him, so earnest and expectant. It makes Arthur’s gut clench. He has no answers for Dom. No plans or ideas. From the moment Yusuf told him what had happened, Arthur had concentrated on finding Dom because he thought Dom would know what to do.

“Go to them,” Arthur says. “Yusuf is distraught, you need to let him know he did the right thing. I’ll find Mother, she can find a nursemaid for the children. Mal can’t be around them any more, Dom.”

“No, of course she can’t,” Dom says instantly. Colour is returning to his cheeks and he wipes his face with his cravat.

“And maybe you should spend some time away from her too,” Arthur says.

“No,” Dom says. “She needs me, now more than ever.”

“I don’t know if there’s much you can do for her,” Arthur says. “And the toll it is taking on you-”

“It’s a toll I gladly bear,” Dom says. “She is my wife, Arthur. You will soon understand what that means, brother.” Dom places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder and squeezes. “Find Mother, that is a good plan. I will go and see to Yusuf.”

Arthur nods and Dom turns from him, walking down the passageway, back straight. For a long time Arthur stands, watching Dom disappear out of sight and then just looks at the bare walls. He can’t process what is happening to Dom. Selfishly, he wonders instead what would have to happen before he could be driven from Eames’s side. Wonders if he will ever love Eames enough that he couldn’t leave him, not even for a night. 

 

“I thought I might find you here.”

Arthur looks up from where he sits, pleased. Eames is standing in the doorway of the servants’ area, the ghost of a smile in his eyes, looking cautious. The thought of facing his family for breakfast had been too much for Arthur this morning and he had gravitated down here in the hopes of finding Eames. And stayed, not sure if Eames would find him, but wanting to avoiding his father anyway. For all that Mal and Dom must occupy the king’s thoughts, Arthur is certain a lecture will be coming his way. Last night is a bit of a blur, but after finding his mother, he’s pretty sure he had spent the rest of the night clinging to Eames. Standing too close as trained responses fell from his lips and the holding too tight as they danced, giving themselves a break from conversation. He can’t regret it, can’t even pretend well enough to appease his father at the moment. 

“Hi,” Arthur says. The sensation of holding Eames, of touching him without fear of more being asked lingers on Arthur’s skin and he holds out an arm, daring to try and recreate the morning he had found Eames in this same spot, weeks before. Eames smiles at him, holding his gaze and walks over to him. He doesn’t sit on Arthur, pulling Arthur up to him instead and wrapping him in a tight embrace. Feeling safe and still, as though Eames has stopped the world from spinning at last, Arthur says again, “Hi.”

“Hi,” Eames says. He tightens his hold when Arthur goes to move away, just enough to say he wants Arthur to stay, not to trap him. It’s nice, but more than Arthur can take this morning and he steps back more firmly and Eames lets him go. “Any news?”

Arthur shakes his head. He hasn’t been to see Dom yet, had come back from the engagement party and fallen into a restless sleep. Perhaps it’s selfish, but Arthur wanted to see Eames first, have Eames by his side. They’re engaged now, and he’s entitled to that, surely. Whatever support Arthur can give needs to be the best it can be. He might not crumble without Eames, but he can do more, be more with Eames helping him.

“I thought we could go up to see Ariadne,” Arthur says. “Everyone will be too distracted to bother worrying about where you are.”

“Okay,” Eames agrees. He goes to say something more, but swallows it.

“What?” Arthur asks.

“I know you need to be fine for your family,” Eames says, adding hurriedly, “And you are fine, are dealing with this better than anyone has any right to expect you to. I’m not saying-“ Eames takes a slow breath, fingers twisting in Arthur’s hands. “If you want to be not-fine for a while, with me, here, where no one can see, that would be… fine.”

Despite himself, Arthur can feel a smile creep over his face, the corners of his mouth curling, ready to tease Eames for this unexpected vulnerability. “I’m fine,” Arthur says, gently, surprised by how true it is. He’s worried about Dom, about Phillipa and James, scared for Mal, unsure about what is going to happen. But he feels oddly calm, centred. Aware that he is doing all he can, and selfishly glad that he has Eames, however it has come about. Eames looks unsure, oddly soft, as though unsure what he can do when faced with a situation muscle and charm cannot fix. Reaching out a hand, Arthur squeezes Eames’s hand, briefly, the moment of connection all Arthur can deal with at the moment. If Eames needs more, he doesn’t let on, and Arthur accepts it, needing to focus his energy on his family this morning.

 

“Ari?” Arthur calls out quietly.

“Arthur?” Ariadne says, opening the door and pulling Arthur in. She wraps her self around him and he pats her back, relieved when Eames interrupts,

“Any news?”

Ariadne steps back, and shakes her head. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face pale. “Mother found a nursemaid a few hours after you found her, a local woman, but she had to find somewhere to leave her own children overnight. Yusuf and Mother watched over the children until she arrived. It was nearly dawn when Yusuf came to find me.”

Arthur feels guilty for not being in his room in case Yusuf needed him. He had passed the night in the abandoned sitting room he had brought Eames to paint him, fallen asleep to the lingering and strangely soothing smell of paint.

“And Mal?” Arthur asks. A long sigh escapes Ariadne. She sags, deflating as though a balloon, and Eames’s arms twitch, ready to catch her if she falls further. 

“Yusuf and Dom took her away immediately,” Ariadne says. “Yusuf wouldn’t say where. I think Dom is hiding her from Father.”

“What does he think Father would do to her?” Arthur says. Their father is not a violent man, but he is deeply pragmatic and that is usually far scarier than anyone prone to fits of temper could be.

Ariadne shrugs. “Send her away? Lock her up?”

“It doesn’t matter what he thought,” Yusuf chimes in. Arthur tears his eyes away from his sister and sees Yusuf sitting up from Ariadne’s chaise lounge. He is still dressed as he was last night, though his palace uniform is crumpled and twisted almost beyond recognition. A soft blue blanket pools in his lap, and Arthur feels his heart soften at the imagine of Ariadne tucking in a wrung out Yusuf, perhaps brushing a hand over his forehead as their mother did when they were younger. If nothing else, this affair has shown what a true brother Yusuf is to their family, and Arthur regrets once more he wasn’t there for Yusuf last night.

“How can it not matter?” Eames asks. “Mal is his wife.”

“But Father is his king,” Arthur says gently.

“He wasn’t thinking of that last night,” Yusuf says. “He wasn’t thinking at all. His child had been hurt, he just wanted to take Mal, put her somewhere safe. Safe for the children, and safe from herself. If the king asks where Mal is, Dom will tell him, once he’s calmed down.”

“What will the king do?” Eames asks.

“That is the question.” A somber silence falls over them at Yusuf’s words. Arthur looks at Eames, and almost startles at the twisted expression he’s pulling, clearly imagining the absolute worst.

“Nothing awful,” Arthur offers awkwardly. “Father wouldn’t have her killed. It would look bad for our treaty with her father’s kingdom, if nothing else.”

“Very comforting, thank you, Arthur, dear,” Eames says. “I must make a point to acquire a kingdom at some point, if that’s what it takes to survive in this family.”

Arthur shakes his head, rolling his eyes pointedly when he sees Ariadne give a small smile. 

“The only real thing that has changed is Dom,” Yusuf says contemplatively. “I think he’s given up hope of her getting better, or at least isn’t going to prioritise that any more. He’s much more likely to go along with anything your father suggests.”

Eames is starting to look a little bit irritated with the conversation, standing stiffly, holding himself back. For all that his life might seem smaller than Arthur’s, lacking in deals to secure peace across countries and beyond the seas, it’s one of action not waiting. He isn’t used to the slow pace and circular conversations of court. If something is wrong in Eames’s world, it is fixed immediately. Chair legs are repaired, disgruntled customers are soothed. Desires are sated with easy smiles. 

“Father will have to decide if she needs to stay in the kingdom or not,” Arthur says, cutting off his train of thought and easing Eames’s frustration. “If she cannot stay, he needs somewhere for her to go. She cannot go home, but perhaps she and Dom could go on a diplomatic visit somewhere, perhaps Cobol. If she stays, or when they come back, she may need to have an injury or illness faked, something to keep her out of the eyes of the public.”

“That only buys time, surely?” Eames asks, relaxing fractionally. 

“That’s all we can do,” Yusuf says.

“We may never be able to salvage Mal’s reputation, but we must distance her from James,” Ariadne adds. “We must assume the truth will eventually get out, but her madness must seem to have come on from something unrelated to the children.”

“We,” Eames says, soft and wistful. Arthur’s chest tightens.

“We’ll let you get more rest,” Arthur says. He nods at Yusuf and kisses Ariadne on the cheek. “I’ll find you again after lunch if nothing more happens.”

Ariadne nods, gratitude etched on her exhausted face. “We still have to meet and discuss desserts for your wedding at 3.”

“Oh good, more excitement. Just what we needed,” Arthur mutters.

“Exactly,” Ariadne says, huffing a small laugh. “Now go, let me rest up for it.”

She chivvies Arthur and Eames out, holding Arthur’s eye for a second of reassurance before closing the door. Arthur slumps against it, and looks at Eames.

“Yes,” Arthur says. “That ‘we’ Ariadne referred to includes you from now on. Problem?”

Eames makes a face. “‘We’ your father and me? I don’t know. But ‘we’ you and me and Ari and Yusuf and, stars above help me, Dom?” Eames leans in to Arthur, their noses brushing, breath mingling. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Uncaring of who could be walking past, Arthur slides a hand into Eames’s hair and presses their lips together.

 

“200 more chickens are going to be needed,” Arthur says absently. “Unless your people don’t eat bird.”

“People from Cobol eat bird, pet,” Eames says, sounding amused and condescending. It’s the sort of sound that makes Arthur feel at once incredibly cross and impossibly fond. Something that surely can only be responded to by hitting Eames and kissing him until he apologises for the implied slight.

“You never know,” Arthur says instead. Every time Eames makes him feel like this, which has been shockingly often since their dance a week prior, Arthur rationalises not following through with his impulse. They chocolates must be sampled, the floral arrangement order must be double checked, someone might walk past, Eames might not appreciate the lingering flavour of the lunch he just sampled. “We’ve had diplomats who were deeply offended when we tried to serve bread and pork at the same time.”

“I would be shocked by your lack of cultural knowledge, but you didn’t know Cobolians married for love until you met me,” Eames says. “And my mother is still laughing at you thinking ‘I know you’ll keep our hearth fires warm’ was a traditional saying.”

Arthur rolls his eyes to avoid having to respond. What he wants to do is move to the couch where Eames is lounging, sit close enough to smell the scent of paint and mint and sweat that is Eames. Close enough to see where his tattoos peek out from under his ill-fitting shirt. Press their legs together, rest a hand on his knee, another on his shoulder, perhaps reaching out to play with hair curling at the nape of his neck. Arthur wants to look Eames directly in the eye and ask if he is marrying more as a countryman from Cobol or Proclus.

He won’t of course. For the same reason, the real reason, he doesn’t uses kisses to silence and reward Eames’s teasing. Arthur is afraid. Whatever response Eames has, Arthur isn’t ready for. If Eames shoves Arthur from him, if he declares he is a man of Proculus values, it would shatter Arthur. Yet if Eames did not, if Eames pressed back, teased his mouth open, slid hands to touch Arthur’s waist and hips, declared himself a Cobolian through and through… Arthur blinks, feeling his vision blur, scared of what that would lead to, scared of how much he both wants and fears Eames loving and wanting him. Scared of hands wandering further than Arthur wants. Sickened by the idea of hurt and, perhaps worse, disappointment, filling Eames’s once fond gaze.

“Darling?” Eames says. Arthur straightens himself, shaking his head clear. Neither situation need happen, not if Arthur keeps his head and works to keep from rocking the ship. Smooth sailing requires nothing more than accepting what is and giving up dreams of more. What he has is enough. More than enough. Eames will smile at him, will laugh with him and call him darling for as long as Arthur can keep everything the same as it is right now. “What can possibly be on that list that is more interesting than my story about my cousin’s chickens and their bids for freedom?”

“Nothing,” Arthur says, putting the list down and turning to Eames. “Nothing at all.” Which could not be further from the truth, with a wedding in under a week and only enough food ordered to feed about a third of the guests. But when Eames laughed, more fond than amused, Arthur found he couldn’t really care.

 

“And that’s when you will enter,” Yusuf murmurs, touching Arthur’s elbow lightly. They start walking slowly up the stairs onto the raised platform where the priest, Ariadne, Eames and Eames’s parents wait. For the real wedding, it would not be Yusuf walking him up, of course, but Dom is busy. Arthur’s parents are similarly absent, still deep in discussions with Dom about what to do with Mal tomorrow. The slight is lost on Eames’s family, who are beaming proudly at Arthur as he crosses to Eames.

“A practice wedding!” Mr Eames says excitedly to Arthur. “It really sinks in just how _important_ this wedding in when you have to practice it first. No one would have cared if I had walked in the wrong door when I married Mrs Eames. It wouldn’t have brought the country to its knees if we had declared our oaths in the wrong order. Why my parents were married for a week before they got around to telling anyone.”

The priest is glaring at Eames, but seems unsure if he is allowed to reprimand him. A merchant who is soon to be unproductive in-law of the ninth born is an unusual position in society.

“Nicole here, I mean Mrs Eames, was very relieved to hear we get a practice in, weren’t you dear? She was worried about doing something wrong.” From the fondly exasperated look Mrs Eames gives her husband, and the odd speed and pitch to Mr Eames’s speech it’s clear she is not the one who feared erring at the wedding. Arthur has been to far too many weddings to sympathise with Mr Eames’s fears. This rehearsal just makes him think when he does actually marry Eames it won’t feel real. A dream coloured in with more details. Arthur looks at Eames, a smirk that threatens to burst out as laughter tight on his mouth, and wishes there was some trick he had to know for sure he isn’t dreaming. 

“Father, I think the priest is ready to go,” Eames murmurs. Mr Eames straightens.

“Oh, right oh then,” Mr Eames says. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you,” the priest says, sounding off-kilter. “The personal agreements between your two families have already been signed, so this ceremony is for the people. As we all know, a marriage must serve not only two people, but our entire country.”

The lecture is one Arthur has heard dozens of times in his life and he tunes it out. He has made peace with his decisions. While his rationale for marrying Eames may have been self-serving, he grows more convinced every day that it does serve his people as well. Instead, Arthur watches Eames and thinks that while their families have drawn up agreements, and they had tentatively promised companionship, he wants to talk to Eames one final time before the ceremony and be sure they are clear what is expected. He wants Eames to go into this marriage aware of what Arthur can do for Eames, be for Eames, rather than fixated on what Arthur is lacking as a marriage partner.

 

Such a time cannot be found until just before Arthur and Eames are scheduled to be whisked away for dressing. It takes no small amount of subterfuge from Ariadne and Yusuf, but at last Arthur finds himself alone in a room with Eames.

“Nervous, darling?” Eames asks. “Not getting cold feet I hope?”

Arthur frowns, derailed from his careful speech. “My feet are fine, do you want some fires lit?’

“No, pet, it means… never mind, it’s a Cobolian saying,” Eames says.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Right, well if all your limbs are adequately temperate-“

“They are,” Eames interrupts cheerfully. He looks almost giddy, skin flushed and eyes bright.

“Good,” Arthur says. Somehow, despite the way Eames has thrown him off course, Arthur feels less awkward. This isn’t a diplomatic mission. This is Arthur talking to Eames. “We’re about to make our oaths, to our families and our people. But I want to make our oaths to each other in private. Nothing we say out there will really affect what this marriage means to us.”

The pleased glow to Eames doesn’t dim, but his grin disappears, his brow creasing. Arthur is both relieved Eames is taking this seriously and scared of what Eames is thinking. He can’t tell if Eames is steeling himself to compromise what he wants to please Arthur, or if he has things to ask of Arthur that cannot happen.

“What we have… it’s neither Cobol nor Proclus,” Arthur says.

“Neither common nor royal,” Eames says, smiling. Arthur can’t work out what he is so pleased about.

“No,” Arthur agrees. “It fits no pattern, no custom that has come before us. I know we’ve already spoken of what we can and cannot give. Of what we can and cannot want.”

“Arthur-“

“We don’t need to speak of that now,” Arthur says, shaking his head. He takes a deep breath. “There’s so much we are not. Conventional, is the first that springs to mind, but I know you don’t care about that. We aren’t brothers, but my oath to you is to give you the loyalty of one. We aren’t lovers, but my oath to you is to give the care and comfort of one. We aren’t equals in the eyes of many, but it is my oath to you that we are in my eyes. We are friends, and my oath to you is to try and bring you the laughter and joy only a true friend can bring.”

“Can I kiss you?” Eames blurts out. “You don’t have to, sorry, I just mean-“

Arthur quiets him with a finger over his lips. “Perhaps I need to amend that, add something about you not being a cat, but promise to keep you fed and cuddled as one would for such a beast.”

“If one of us is a cat, it is definitely you, pet,” Eames says, smirking. Arthur wrinkles his nose in protest. “I would be a horse. Or maybe a dog.”

“In that case, you may only kiss me if you promise not to lick me,” Arthur says. When Eames still seems hesitant, Arthur adds, “Besides, I hear it is a tradition to seal oaths with kisses.”

“I’ve never heard that,” Eames says. “Have you been speaking to my mother again?”

Arthur laughs and shakes his head. “No. Maybe it’s not a traditional anywhere else, but I think it should be one between us.”

Scared Eames will change his mind, Arthur wraps an arm around Eames’s neck and pulls him into a kiss. Every time they do this, Arthur feels himself grow in both confidence and confusion. There lips move together, and it’s just skin on skin, a little bit of moisture guiding the way. A physical action, Arthur can master, and he knows how to angle himself, how to move. He’s learning when to dart out a tongue to deepen it into something more complicated, when to draw back if he doesn’t want it to change. Where to place his hands, one in Eames’s hair if he wants to control the kiss, one on a hip if he wants to increase contact, one on a shoulder if he doesn’t. What he can’t work out is how to stop his heart from racing, why his chest tightens, what it means when his stomach starts to feel fluttery and warm. How Eames’s easy pliability when they kiss, the way he hands total control to Arthur can be both comforting, infuriating and heart-wrenching all at once.

When they part, in response to Arthur’s hand sliding to Eames’s chest, Eames’s muscles flexing as he holds himself back from chasing Arthur’s lips, Arthur feels completely undone and complete all at once.

“And thus my oaths are sealed,” Arthur says, smiling at Eames.

“Do I get to make oaths as well?” Eames asks.

“You’d better!” Arthur says, his stern look undermined by his inability to stop smiling.

“Good,” Eames says. “Although in all fairness you should have given me some time to write something. How am I meant to follow that up?”

“I don’t expect-“ Arthur says.

“I know,” Eames says quickly. “I suppose I’ll just have to make it up as I go along. I’ve always been told I’m good with words. Charming, is what most people say. Charismatic-“

“This is a great start so far,” Arthur interrupts. “But you can probably skip the part about how handsome and modest you are.”

“Well that doesn’t leave much,” Eames says. “I didn’t know what to think when you asked me to marry you. Beyond thinking you’d lost your mind, of course. I suppose it’s unsurprising to hear my whole life changed when I decided to pickpocket a prince of the realm-“

“So you admit it!”

“Hey! I didn’t talk through your oaths,” Eames scolds. 

“Sorry,” Arthur says. 

“Maybe that will be my first, I swear to forgive you when you’re rude to me,” Eames says. Arthur darts a quick kiss onto Eames’s mouth.

“Sealed, can’t take it back,” Arthur says, grinning.

“Right, so my whole life changed when a prince of the realm accused me of pickpocketing, but not in the way that story usually ends. Before I met you and you filled my head with mad schemes, I was quite happy pottering along and never thinking about the future. Life after marriage I thought would be about a loss of freedom, about carving out happiness where I could find it, and so I endeavoured to live every day until that moment as though it were my last. You were never meant to be more than one day’s amusement, more than one moment of daring, more than one story I could tell to my children. A story no one would believe, a memory that would fade into nothing more than a dream,” Eames shrugs. “And yet here we stand. Living in what must be the best dream someone could conjure. I guess that must mean my oath to you is to live the dream with you. To be beside you if we ever must wake up. My oath is to ferry you safely from the land of dreams to the land of waking and to l- to not let you linger too long in nightmares.”

“Oh,” Arthur says, and is saved from saying more when Eames’s lips finding his.


	11. The Execution

The wedding is a blur to Arthur. He remembers with sharp clarity springing apart from Eames at the sound of a knock, the faint flush of embarrassment to be caught by Ariadne paling in comparison to the sensation of wonder sealing oaths with Eames had brought. Dimly he recalls Mal’s glassy eyes, Dom having apparently found the seed of some kind of flower that would keep her calm for long enough to risk her appearance in public. He knows he must have eaten, as now he can feel his stomach threaten to bring something back up as he stared at his bed. Despite a lifetime of sleeping upon it, the expanse of fabric and furs seems alien now.

“I could ask for a separate bed,” Eames offers. He’s standing too far away and too close all at once. “Tell them it’s a Cobol thing.”

Arthur shakes his head. “While a marriage may not be true in Cobol without sharing love, here the couple must share a bed.”

“Arthur,” Eames says. Arthur looks at him, feeling foolish and young and wishing not for the first time he could be like other people. “It will be alright, pet. You must know I don’t expect anything. I promise. I would never take anything you don’t want to give.”

“I know,” Arthur says, guilt threatening to tip the storm of feelings into something bigger than himself, something impossible to bear. “Of course I know, Eames. Whatever my failings as a husband, I know you will be nothing less than ideal.”

“That’s going a bit far, pet,” Eames says. He’s shuffled close enough to Arthur that he can nudge their shoulder’s together. It’s awkward and not enough and too much and Arthur hates that he cannot be sensible about this.

“I usually sleep on the far side, away from the door,” Arthur says, gesturing. “If you want to swap, I warn you know the castle guards will throw a fit. I’m afraid one of your duties is to be stabbed on my behalf in the event of an attack.”

“Okay,” Eames says. “I can go change first, if you like.”

“What?” Arthur asks, confused. Until he realises Eames means nightclothes, not into yet another formal outfit. They are done for the night.

“It will be no different to sitting next to each other on a sofa,” Eames assures him. 

“Of course it won’t,” Arthur snaps. “It’s not a big deal.”

“No,” Eames says firmly. He walks over to the dresser where, Arthur realises, a servant must have put all of his clothes. He pulls out an enormous and dizzying pair of loose trousers, and an equally billowing, blinding nightshirt. Arthur changes quickly while Eames is gone. He carefully puts out the candles, flushing as he members the sly look the servant had given him when they offered to leave Arthur alone overnight. Leaving the sconces to burn themselves out, Arthur slides beneath his quilts. He pull them up right to his chin, and then shoves them down again when it just makes him feel yet more ridiculous.

Eames returns, somehow not drowning in the yards and yards of fabric in his night clothes. He takes the other side of the bed and tucks himself in. There’s an ocean of space between them and Arthur has never felt their proximity more.

“Do you snore?” Arthur asks, cutting off whatever Eames had opened his mouth to say.

“No,” Eames says.

“Talk in your sleep?” Arthur plows on.

“Not that I know.”

“Kick out in the night?”

“No, but Darl-“

“Sleepwalk? Sneeze? Juggle?”

“Arthur!” Eames bursts out.

“They will check the sheets in the morning,” Arthur says, cheeks pinking.

“For- oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“I can take care of that,” Eames offers. It is dark enough that Eames sounds impossibly close, too light for the words to be swallowed. They hang awkwardly, loud in all they are not saying. The image of Eames doing so is hard to capture precisely, Arthur’s mind conjuring a blurred, disjointed version, like a half-finished painting. 

“Thank you,” Arthur says. Eames laughs.

“Not a problem, darling.”

Darling. Arthur reaches a hand across the bedsheets, finds Eames’s and runs his fingertips along the back of it until Eames turns it and slides their fingers together. 

“Goodnight, Eames.” Darling.

 

Arthur is hiding in his privy when the news arrives. He had woken with the sun, shaken Eames awake and stumbled through some version of, “Well, get on with it then,” considering and then deciding against kissing him and disappeared. He doesn’t hear the servant knock, carefully not listening to what is going on, but he cannot mistake Eames calling his name out gently.

“Arthur? Can you come out please?”

“You’d better be finish-”

Yusuf is standing in the doorway. For a moment, Arthur fears the man has come here to vomit, a petty revenge for some childhood misdeed, so washed out and sickly does he look. His forehead is damp with sweat, and he’s panting.

“Take a seat,” Eames urges. Yusuf shakes his head.

“I have to go back. A- they will need me.”

To his horror, Arthur realises his cheeks are not wet with exertion, but tears.

“Yusuf, what’s wrong?” Arthur demands, panic welling. “Did Mal- are the children okay?”

“Mal’s dead.”

Arthur sinks into the chair Eames has conjured up from somewhere. His ears ring and he fears he’s hearing has gone wrong. The room swims before him. He is untethered, floating. No longer Arthur, but someone who exists only in this very moment. This instant which is both real and unreal. Endless and ephemeral.

“What,” Arthur says, stupidly. Eames puts his hands on Arthur’s shoulders. They’re heavy and warm and he’s jolted back inside himself. His feet are cold. 

“She’s dead,” Yusuf says and he’s crying again. Or maybe he never stopped. He blurs in front of Arthur, and it’s not until Eames hands him a handkerchief that Arthur realises Yusuf has simply dissolved into tears. Arthur is crying too.

“How did it happen?” Eames asks, gently. Arthur lifts a hand to grip at Eames, finding his wrist, and holds on, scared of floating away again. Needing to know Eames is still okay.

“Are the children okay?” Arthur adds. 

“They’re fine. She didn’t- Dom hasn’t let her near them,” Yusuf rubs his eye, looking at his damp hand in surprise, as though he can’t quite work out why it is wet. “Dom woke this morning to find she was gone. She left a note, telling him to join her. He thought she had just snuck out somehow. We looked and looked for her, in the children’s room, their chambers, her sitting room, the library. We looked and looked and looked.”

“Where-“

“Outside,” Yusuf says. “She threw herself out of the window. One of the gardeners found her. He was shaking when he came to find us, convinced he would be arrested for killing her.”

Arthur wants to vomit. Dom had taken her up to the one of the tower rooms, tucked away from where servants or guests could find her. Somewhere she would find it hard to make it back to the children if the door were to be somehow left unlocked. So great had been Dom’s paranoia, that he had Yusuf lock them in at night. How long had Dom sat in his room, alone, not knowing where his wife was, not knowing if his children were safe? How long had he slept, her body broken and growing cold so far below him?

“I need to go back,” Yusuf says. “Will you-“

“We’ll find you later,” Eames says. “I’m so sorry Yusuf.”

Yusuf nods. “I am too.”

Arthur isn’t sure how long he sits after Yusuf is gone, but at some point Eames has brought him a damp cloth, and he suddenly realises it’s cold in his hands. He’s sure it was warm when Eames brought it. It wakes him, the scrape of the cool cloth against his warm cheeks.

“Eames,” Arthur says, mindlessly, looking around the room. Eames is sitting on the bed, watching his, concern twisting his features into someone almost unrecognisable.

“What can I do, Arthur?”

“I wish you had known her,” Arthur says. “She was lovely.”

Eames stands and crosses the room, crouches in front of him, using Arthur’s knee to balance himself. “She must have been,” Eames murmurs. “You all loved her so much. Showed such loyalty, even when her mind had gone.”

“I still love her,” Arthur says. “She’s been gone for months, for longer than I knew. I couldn’t stop loving her. I can’t imagine what Dom is going through. We need to go to him. He shouldn’t be alone. And the children, who is going to explain to them?”

“One thing at a time, love,” Eames murmurs. “Let your mother and father think about the children, let’s go see Dom.”

 

It wasn’t always easy to explain Arthur’s admiration for Dom. He saw more of his brother’s faults than anyone, was always the first to spot mistakes, was the person Dom told his secrets and flaws to. The rest of the family loved Dom and seemed content he would make a good king, perhaps not the king his father was, but Proclus was stable. The country needed nothing more than someone to keep it going, someone the people could love, could believe was keeping them safe. Dom could do that.

“She’s gone, Arthur.”

But Arthur believed Dom could do more. Arthur saw his brother, saw his imperfections and looked up at him still more for them. Believed his brother could move mountains.

“I know,” Arthur says. He feels like he’s failing his brother. His brother has greatness in him, Arthur believes that, but greatness is nothing if it is alone. That is Arthur’s job. To support Dom. To catch him before he stumbles, to guide him along a greater path. Dom stands before him now and is nothing more than a shell of a man. Everything inside him is gone and unless Arthur can find something to fill him with, he will crumble and drift away with the wind. “I know” is not what Dom needs, but it’s all Arthur can think to give. He looks across to Eames, and Eames makes an encouraging gesture but stays silent. Which is as it should be. Eames, much as Arthur wishes this were untrue, is now what Dom needs right now.

“I know,” Arthur says again. He crosses the room, the tiny attic room Mal spent the last few hours of her life in, and pulling Dom in close. Again, softer, “I know.”

Dom breaks in Arthur’s arms. Clutches at him like a dying man clings to life. Over and over, Arthur tells Dom he knows. Not just the fact of the death, but the tragedy behind it. All those lost months when Mal’s mind was gone. The years of happiness before. The pity of the motherless years the children have yet to come. Arthur knows how deeply Dom loved Mal. How unexpectedly passionate and perfect their relationship had been, from the very early days. How impossible it must seem that Dom must go on without her.

“I gave up on her, Arthur,” Dom sobs. “I dragged her up to lock her away from the world. She just wanted a chance to fly again.”

“Dom, no,” Arthur says. “You took her here to keep the children safe. You followed her to keep her loved. This isn’t your fault, Dom.”

Dom shakes his head and moans, a deep, low, animalistic sound. Arthur squeezes him tighter, rubs his back.

“I know. I know.”

 

“Have you been to see him?” Ariadne asks, letting Arthur and Eames into her room. Yusuf leaps from the couch behind her, and hurries past them.

“We’ve just come from there,” Arthur says. Ariadne nods.

“Yusuf doesn’t want to leave him alone,” Ariadne says, her voice low. “I think he’s scared Dom will do the same thing.”

Arthur shudders, horrified. “He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, not to his children.”

Ariadne shrugs. “I know, but Yusuf worries.”

“He’s been through a lot,” Arthur says. “He was there when Mal hurt Phillipa, he was there this morning searching with Dom. He’s known Mal was ill long before any of us did.”

Ariadne nods. “He’s been fighting with Dom for weeks about Mal.”

Arthur collapses down on Ariadne’s couch, wishing Eames did not settle quite so carefully next to him. “How are you holding up Ari?”

Sprawling on the armchair across from them, Ariadne sighs. “I don’t know. I thought I knew, you know? The way she was on James’s naming day, what she did to Phillipa… I thought I knew that she wasn’t going to get better. I thought I had accepted Mal would never come back. But this?” Ariadne shudders, and she scrubs a hand at her eyes. “I guess there’s a difference between knowing and believing.”

“None of us expected this,” Arthur says. He leans forward, propping elbows on knees, resting his chin in his hands. They were about six and eight the first time someone they knew died. Arthur had considered himself a bit of an expert on death, having lost a pony not long before and a dog the year before. He had snuck into Ariadne’s room, curled up on the bed with her and explained about how their Aunt was gone and would no longer send presents on their birthdays. Ariadne had asked why, and, with the weight of eight years of wisdom, Arthur had sighed and told Ariadne all about how Proclus would sink if there were too many people on it. A very childish part of Arthur longed for someone to sit them both down and explain this. Wished there _was_ some reason. Some way to make this fair, to reveal some deeper plot that would make Mal’s death noble.

Looking at Ariadne, no longer a little girl, but always and forever his little sister, all Arthur can do is get up, and crawl onto the bed with her. Stroke his hand through her hair and whisper, “Maybe she felt too heavy for this world. Maybe she wanted to make sure her children wouldn’t drown.”

“Yeah,” Ariadne says, giving him a watery smile that suggested she didn’t believe a word of what he said, but appreciated the sentiment nonetheless. “Maybe.”

 

Nothing quite so sharply reminds Arthur of his roles and responsibilities as being called for a meeting with his parents mere hours after his sister-in-law killed herself. His time is not his own, he is not entitled to grieve when it suits him. The country will not stop while he weeps. 

“Arthur, take a seat.” His father sounds calm, solemn and strong. Irrationally, Arthur hates that he is not hysterical. “Eames, thank you, you can leave us.”

“Father!” Arthur protests. “He is family now, he is my husband. We will not have secrets between us.”

“Arthur, it’s okay,” Eames murmurs, squeezing his shoulder and giving a short bow to the king.

King Marnack nods his approval at Eames. Arthur wants his father to approve of Eames, but right now he wants Eames with him more. But he cannot always have what he wants.

“Thank you, Eames,” his mother says and the servant who had summoned them opens the door, leading Eames out and leaving them alone.

“Arthur,” his father says. “You are married now, and as such are considered a full adult in our family. I had not intended to place more responsibility on you until you had time to settle into your marriage, but the present circumstances demand it. I apologise.”

“I accept your apology, thank you father,” Arthur says. The words are rote, almost meaningless, but they signal a change. Arthur sits further forward in his chair, shoulder tight. Only years of decorum lessons stop him from running a hand through his hair.

“Mallorie’s death puts us in an awkward position,” his father says.

“Already there are murmurs, people don’t know what has happened, but apparently several people saw her body before Dom and Yusuf found it,” his mother adds. For a second, Arthur cannot process what his mother has said. What it means. All he can think is ‘it’. The utterly uncontainable Mal has been reduced to nothing more than an ‘it’. He shakes himself, his parents need him, however unsavoury he finds their attitude to the situation. “Some don’t believe it is Mal, but there is a rumour beginning to form that Dom threw her out of the window. Despite all our precautions, it was of course inevitable the servants would work out where Dom had taken her. We were trying to give the impression the doctor prescribed the thinner air up higher, to help deal with her delicate health, but of course it looks very different in light of the events of this morning.”

“They think Dom deliberately took Mal up there to kill her?” Arthur asks, horrified. He had thought the people loved Dom, that the servants were utterly loyal to him. 

“No one really knows what to think,” his mother says. “This is simply the worst of what I have been hearing.”

“The people can be controlled,” his father says. “It is King Miles, Mal’s father, I am more concerned about.”

From Arthur’s memories of the man, King Miles was a fair and kind man. Ariadne had summered with the family in the past, and found him intelligent and discerning. Dom’s marriage to Mal represented the strongest relationship between the two countries in many years, as traditionally their people had found Proclus a harsh and unyielding kingdom.

When he heard, though, King Miles would not be thinking as a political leader. He would become a man grieving the loss of a beloved daughter. In this, Arthur was at a loss as to how he could help prevent war breaking out over Mal’s death.

 

“Oh, here you are,” Arthur says, pushing the door to the disused sitting room that he himself had gravitated to the night before. The room he used to hide Eames when he came to visit, when they couldn’t be seen together, but couldn’t stay apart.

“Arthur,” Eames says, turning from his easel, with a startled guilty expression.

Around and around Arthur and his parents had spoken. Coolly discussing Mal’s death, outlining repercussions and strategies. It turned Arthur’s stomach to think of the half-an-hour spent considering how to best phrase the message they would send to King Miles.

“What are you doing?” Arthur asks. He had gone looking for Eames as soon as he was dismissed, and a small, panic crept over him when he realised he was in a way reenacting Dom’s steps of the morning. Looking in parlours and sitting rooms, bed chambers and servants areas, growing less and less certain he would find Eames. It was utterly irrational of course, to grow so worried about Eames, so morbid in his thoughts. There were less places Arthur knew Eames was likely to be in, and it couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes before he found him. Nothing on the hour long search, no note suggesting something was wrong. Eames was not being locked away, a danger to himself and others. He was fine. Keeping himself out of the way of the grieving family, a stranger bound to them by law for less than a day. 

“I finished your portrait,” Eames says, hunching over himself and looking away from Arthur, as though he is confessing some terrible crime.

“My- I didn’t realise you were actually painting me,” Arthur says, dumbfounded. “Wasn’t it just a ruse?”

“A good forgery must be undetectable from the real version,” Eames says, shrugging. Burning with curiosity, Arthur crosses the room to look at the painting.

“How long have you been working on this?” Arthur demands. The painting is, well it’s beautiful. Arthur feels oddly vain calling it that, when he is the subject, but it’s not his face that makes the portrait so lovely. In fact, Arthur isn’t sure it looks much like him. Not precisely, anyway. More like the way he would look in a dream, recognisable, but there’s more to his features, something ethereal, something mysterious. Sensible, straight-forward ninth-born son Arthur is not present, rather some creature with secrets and wonder.

“Every now and then,” Eames says dismissively. “I- I wanted to give it to you as a wedding present, but I can’t seem to finish it.”

“It’s not done?” Arthur says, tearing his eyes from the painting to look at Eames. His eyes are rueful, a flush of embarrassment colours his cheeks, mouth twisted into something regretful. Arthur changes his mind. The painting is amazing, but this, right here, is truly beautiful. Eames in front of him, muscular frame hunched down, mischievous eyes glimmering even without their usual mirth, mouth that smirks and makes Arthur laugh, that coaxes smiles and kisses from him, this makes Arthur’s breath catch and his throat tighten. He’s so thankful and scared and Mal is dead and he didn’t know where Eames was, maybe he didn’t really think Eames was gone, but he _could be_. What is to stop his father from changing his mind, declaring the marriage void and sending Eames away? Why would Eames choose to stay with Arthur, limit himself to living in this cold world where the death of someone so beloved is discussed as an inconvenience and not a tragedy? How can Arthur be expected to keep Eames safe from plagues and falls and attacks and-

“Darling, Arthur, stop.” Eames’s hand is hovering just above Arthur’s cheek, the warmth bleeding through as though they are touching. All at once, Arthur can feel the heat of Eames all around him, and he shivers.

“Eames,” Arthur breaths, and surges forward, wrapping his arms around Eames and pressing them together, trying to force them into the one space. He mouth finds Eames’s and allows no give between them. In that moment, it all becomes very clear to Arthur. To keep Eames will require they must convince the stars and the gods and the very air around them that they are the one and the same person. Mal’s voice rings in his ear. _To be a lover, is to be half of a whole _. At the time he had thought it a sad comment, taken it as a warning, but now he understands.__

__“Pet, what is happening?” Eames asks, panting as he tears his mouth from Arthur’s. He does not try to escape Arthur’s grip, simply plants his feet more firmly, rubs a circle across Arthur’s shoulders._ _

__“We’re kissing,” Arthur says, grinning, feeling wild and terrified and untethered to anything but Eames. When Eames avoids him going in for another kiss, Arthur stills. He knows lovers will kiss in other ways, trace lips down jaws, feel for the lifeblood that thrums in necks, but the thought is oddly paralysing._ _

__“Is that what you call that,” Eames says, almost conversationally. His voice drops, soft and intimate. “Darling, I’m not going anywhere. I’m okay. We’re okay.”_ _

__Arthur drops his forehead down onto Eames’s shoulder. A tattoo blurs in front of his eyes, but he can’t tell if he is simply too close to focus or if he’s crying again._ _

__“Breathe, love,” Eames says._ _

__The smell of Eames is rich and real and Arthur wishes he could want in the way other people do. He hurts and he wants Eames, needs something from Eames he knows others would take through shared pleasures, through joining bodies and sating desires. It’s a frustrating impossibility that Arthur can want the feeling but not the actions. How can he want and need Eames so much, without desiring him, while still feeling ill at the thought of Eames touching him more intimately._ _

__Arthur looks up at Eames. Pulls him softly into a chaste kiss. Slides his hands down Eames’s chest, stroking once move over a spot that makes Eames give a tiny gasp. Wanders down further. Eames steps back._ _

__“Arthur.”_ _

__“Let me,” Arthur says. He goes to step forward. Pauses. “But don’t-“_ _

__The thought of touching Eames is like memories touching fire, running fingers daringly across the top of a candle, thrills of delight when the heat doesn’t hurt. Maybe it would be safe to risk his fingers today, maybe this would be enough to satisfy his need._ _

__The thought of Eames touching him is more like memories of falling through ice._ _

__“Darling?” Eames asks. Uncertainty colours his features, but Arthur thinks he can see hope or desire or something more behind that._ _

__“Let me, but you can’t,” Arthur stops again, frustrated._ _

__“I won’t,” Eames promises. Arthur nods. He lets out a groan when Eames holds out a hand to stop him encroaching back into his space. “You don’t have to do this.”_ _

__“I do,” Arthur insists._ _

__“Not for me,” Eames repeats. “You never have to do anything like this for me.”_ _

__“For me,” Arthur says. “For… for Mal, for you, for me. I need to fix this, and I can’t, Eames I can’t.”_ _

__“Are you sure?” Eames asks. Arthur nods, but still Eames won’t let him closer. “On the couch then.”_ _

__Arthur sags with relief and moves around Eames, pushing him towards the chaise lounge. To his surprise, not only does Eames go easily, but he’s laughing and as he collapses down onto the couch, Arthur finds he is laughing too._ _

__“Arthur,” Eames says, wonderingly. His hands trace the shape of Arthur’s face, map his cheekbones, memorise his jawline._ _

__Arthur sprawls on top of Eames and finds his mouth again. Nerves flow over Arthur in waves. He thinks maybe Eames doesn’t really want this, but as he shifts his weight, a pressure against his thigh tells him otherwise. It is both wonderful and terrifying. Worried he will lose his nerve, Arthur starts to find his way down Eames’s body, moving so he is straddling Eames’s thighs. His hands rest comfortably on Eames’s hips, the last port of familiar ground. He licks his tongue along the fullness of Eames’s lower lip, not trying to enter when Eames’s mouth open. Breathing in Eames, taking the life breath of his body directly from the source is intoxicating. He feels heady. His fingers stumble as they try to undo the flies on Eames’s trousers._ _

__“Let me,” Eames murmurs, the sound almost swallowed by Arthur, their lips brushing in something that isn’t a kiss, something both more and less than one._ _

__“No,” Arthur says sharply. Immediately Eames’s hands, which had started to make their way down to meet Arthur’s still and retreat. Arthur brushes an apologetic kiss along the corner of Eames’s mouth. “I need to. Just… I liked it when your hands were in my hair.”_ _

__“Okay,” Eames says, and starts to stroke Arthur’s hair into some kind of impossible mess._ _

__There’s no way he can’t feel that Arthur’s body is starting to respond to Eames’s heat, but there’s a difference between knowing that and having Eames’s hands near him like that._ _

__For a few long seconds, Arthur mouths vaguely at Eames’s shoulder, feeling his breath slow even if his heart does not. Once he’s sure his hands are steady, Arthur tries once more to deal with undoing Eames’s trousers, relieved when they obey him easily this time. The more his panic recedes, the more the sense of urgency rises up once more. He glances down and moves his hand to grasp at Eames, who gasps and shudders beneath Arthur. Unbidden, his eyes close and his whole word narrows to the heat and movement of Eames beneath him, impossibly hot in his hand, shivering and moaning, so very very alive. So very very _his_._ _

__Kissing while stroking Eames feels electric, overwhelming, overloading his senses. It’s what he wanted, they are utterly connected. Eames’s hands are tangling and tugging in Arthur’s hair. Eames’s breath, lips and tongue indistinguishable from Arthur’s. Eames is surging with life in Arthur’s hand, hips bucking and thighs tensing as he spills over them both. It leaves Arthur feeling wrung out, collapsing on top of Eames, uncaring of the mess, delighting in the grunt Eames makes in response to his sudden weight._ _

__“Darling.” Eames’s voice is wrecked. “Please, please, let me touch you, let me run my hands down your back or hold your hand or-“_ _

__“Okay,” Arthur agrees, burrowing his face into Eames’s shoulder again and sighing as Eames’s hands slide down from where they are tangled in his hair. They stroke, evenly and gently, up and down his back for a few moments, slowly descending into tracing mindless patterns._ _

__They lie in silence for a long time. Long after Eames’s release grows cool between them. Long after Arthur’s weight could possibly be comfortable. Long after muscles grow stiff. When they finally do rise, Arthur feels completely calm. Centred. As though he has no space left in him to feel embarrassed by what they had just done, or worried about what it means for the future. Right in that moment he has complete faith in Eames._ _

__“Eames,” Arthur says, smiling warmly. “I lo-“_ _

__“Don’t,” Eames says. His voice is rough, almost harsh. It shocks Arthur, makes him shiver, unexpectedly cold._ _

__“What-“_ _

__“Do you remember what you asked of me after we visited my parents?” Eames says. Arthur nods, the moment after the agreement meaning almost as much as the promise had. “I said we would never be like my parents. I would never pretend to care for you more than I do, pretend to love you when I don’t. Arthur, precious, you must see that that’s what this would be.”_ _

__“No it’s not,” Arthur whispered._ _

__Eames shakes his head. “This is what I need, Arthur. What we just did, I know it just a reaction to Mal’s death, and that’s fine. I’m glad you turned to me, I’m glad I could do that for you. Right now, what you think you’re feeling… it’s not real.”_ _

__“Eames,” Arthur says, hating himself when yet again words fail him._ _

__“It’s sweet you think it’s real, pet,” Eames says. “But it’s just not and I’m just saving you from having to take them back later.”_ _

__“I wouldn’t,” Arthur says. He can’t work out where things veered so wildly out of his control, out of his comprehension. How can Eames not know? He is everything to Arthur._ _

__“You would,” Eames says, and he manages to sound both fond and amused and regretful all at once. “Because we promised not to have my parents marriage, and that goes both ways.”_ _


	12. The Fallout

Eames doesn’t come to bed with Arthur that night. Arthur is deeply asleep even before the servants come to put out his candles, too many restless nights, too much drama and high emotions for Arthur to stay awake, tossing and turning, waiting for him. When Arthur wakes, it is to bright sunlight streaming into his room, to the dull ache of grief.

And to Eames beside him.

“Good morning,” Arthur murmurs, not quite sure if he wants the words to wake Eames or not. Eames is sleeping heavily, deep even breaths, body otherwise quite still. Arthur inches across the bed, not quite game to touch Eames, but wanting to study him more closely. There’s the faint smell of alcohol clinging to Eames’s clothes, which, Arthur notes, are the same ones he wore to dinner last night. It’s a stupid thing to feel fond about, but there he is. 

It doesn’t look like Eames will wake any time soon, so Arthur creeps closer still, propping himself up on an elbow he tucks next to Eames’s chests. Gently, he slides their legs together. Hovers a hand over Eames’s chest before removing it back to his own person. Eames sleeps steadily on.

Arthur’s eyes search Eames’s face as he tries to work out what he thinks of this. The touching, the not knowing where Eames was last night. Being married. What they did yesterday. He shoves aside the unsettling question of how he would react if he found Eames doing this to him, something both welcome and not, because he knows Eames would not mind. It is this thought that propels him to place his hand back, this time making contact with Eames’s chest. He doesn’t stroke it, so much as let Eames’s breathing move it up and down as his chest rises and falls.

Yesterday had been intense. More than Arthur was expecting. More, he reflects ruefully, than he was perhaps ready for. More than their relationship was ready for?

Arthur shakes Eames, not liking the train his thoughts seem to want to follow.

“Go away, I’m dying,” Eames moans. Then he opens his eyes and squints at Arthur. “Darling?”

“You didn’t come to bed last night,” Arthur says, but he keeps his voice light. He is not Eames’s keeper, and he trusts he had good reason to be wherever he ended up. And besides, he is still calling Arthur darling.

“I’ll do it more often if it means waking up to a morning cuddle,” Eames says, smiling softly at Arthur, eyes not quite focused. The hand his places over Arthur’s suggests he is alert, though, holding him firmly in place without trapping him. “I went and got Dom drunk.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Is that a Cobolian tradition?”

“That one’s all marketplace, pet. My father drank with a lot of grieving people over the years, took me once I proved I could hold my liquor.” Eames yawns, and Arthur wrinkles his nose at the smell, causing Eames to laugh. “I take it morning kisses are off the menu, then?”

“That was good of you,” Arthur says, in lieu of answering. Eames shrugs.

“We’re family now,” Eames says. It is utterly unfair that Eames is allowed to say that, Arthur thinks, his heart swelling even as his stomach drops. He wants to try to tell Eames again, but he couldn’t take it if Eames stopped him once more. Instead, Arthur leans over Eames and presses their lips together. When he lifts his head, Eames surveys him critically.

“Don’t get me wrong, pet, that was lovely,” Eames says. “But I take back what I said. Even morning kisses aren’t enough to make me want to go out drinking with your brother again.”

Arthur hits him over the head with a pillow.

 

“I anticipate we’ll hear back from King Miles by tomorrow evening at the latest,” King Marnack says, and Arthur almost hates his father in that moment. He is so calm and composed, casually bringing up Mal’s father as he slices a sausage. Judging from Ari’s mutinous glare, Arthur is not alone in his thoughts. 

For all that Mal’s death had been sudden and brought with it hot and furious grief, the fallout has been far slower, reactions oddly muted and confused. James had cried for his mother, but been satisfied with the breast of his nursemaid, too young to really understand. Phillipa had accepted the news calmly, clung to her father and Arthur doesn’t know if she misses her mother, or if she minds she is gone, or if she is relieved.

This breakfast marks the fourth morning since her death, but it’s not the fourth they have eaten without her. The months of absence prior warp and reduce the sensation of loss. Yet for her family back home, the long separation will sharpen their responses. They have not had months of watching Mal disappear in front of them, not been faced with a stranger wearing Mal’s face. For King Miles, Mal’s death can surely not be borne with this casual civility.

“He’ll travel directly here, surely?” Ariadne asks, her voice oddly combative.

“If things are settled in his kingdom, I imagine so,” King Marnack agrees. “But he will send a messenger ahead to announce his coming.”

“Will he want to take her home?” Ariadne asks. Arthur can’t work out what is beneath Ariadne’s fury. It is not their father’s fault Mal died, nor can he be blamed for being pragmatic, much as Arthur wants to.

“Proclus is her home,” King Marnack says firmly.

“It is Dom’s decision,” Queen Alexandra says. All eyes turn to Dom, who looks up, mind clearly not on breakfast, if it is anywhere at all. Without Mal, Dom seems like he is slowly fading, growing thinner, greyer and less present.

“She can be laid to rest with her family,” Dom says. They don’t sound like his words, and when their mother nods, Arthur realises the cadence is all hers.

“Yes, we were talking about this yesterday,” Queen Alexandra says. “It is unusual, but as she died so young not unreasonable. It will certainly soothe her father and it will make things simpler when Dom remarries.”

“Mother,” Ariadne hisses. Dom doesn’t react at all.

“Ariadne,” King Marnack says firmly. And Arthur knows that Dom will have to remarry, of course he will, the kingdom needs more heirs, he will need a wife and a crown prince is a strong bargaining chip when forming treaties. His parents are being shockingly cold about it, however, and Arthur looks between them, over to Ariadne, trying to puzzle them out.

“As is his duty,” King Marnack agrees. It clicks for Arthur what has upset Ariadne about half a second before his father adds, “We’ll meet in the library after breakfast.”

 

It feels strange to be in the library so soon again after Arthur’s turn to find a spouse. So much has happened between then and now. Eames is nothing Arthur thought he could be, makes Arthur feel things he never thought he would. Dom is a shadow of the man he was, has gone through more than Arthur thinks he himself could bear. And he always imagined the day Ariadne was to have her turn as the subject of a marriage arrangement it would be a light-hearted affair. Ariadne firm on what she needed from a husband, but open to ideas, make joking suggestions and have a generally less stressful time than Arthur had. This scene before him could not be further from what he envisioned.

“Mal _died_ four days ago,” Ariadne says, jumping out of her chair and starting to pace. “Arthur _just_ got married.”

“Mal’s death leaves us politically vulnerable,” Queen Alexandra says calmly, remaining seated on the couch she shares with King Marnack. “And Eames affords us no practical value in fortifying our country’s security should King Miles react poorly. All of which your father explained to you yesterday.”

King Marnack gives Ariadne an assessing look. “If this is just grief, you must recall you are a princess of the realm and save grieving for when you are in private,” he says, and though he sounds blunt, Arthur is surprised at how gently he speaks to Ariadne. “And if there is someone else, you must let them go. We are not in a position to make the allowances we made for Arthur.”

Ariadne stops pacing, looking directly at their father. Eames’s hand finds Arthur’s on the sofa, and Arthur is grateful his father isn’t looking their way.

“There isn’t-“ Ariadne says.

“It makes no difference,” King Marnack says. He holds her gaze steadily. “Although if you are pregnant-“

“Father!” Ariadne is starting to look flushed with anger, but Arthur feels his own skin heat. It had simply never occurred to him that Ariadne, his clever, puzzle loving, problem solving, brilliant baby sister might want what he could not. 

“Then you need to tell us so we know what sort of a timeline we have to work with,” King Marnack continues, ignoring Ariadne’s outburst. The image of Ariadne swollen with child springs to Arthur’s mind, though he cannot believe she would keep something like this from him.

“Mal’s dead,” Ariadne says again.

“I can’t help but notice you haven’t denied your father’s suggestion,” Queen Alexandra points out. Ariadne makes a strangled noise and storms out. As the door shuts behind her, the king and queen turn to look at Arthur. King Marnack raises an eyebrow, looking pointedly at where Eames’s hand still holds Arthur’s. Snatching his hand back would make Arthur look and feel far guiltier than he truly is, so Arthur leaves it and endures his father’s long-suffering sigh.

“I’ll go after her, then, shall I?” Dom says. All four of them turn sharply to the window seat where Dom starts to rise. Arthur tries to catch his eye in apology for forgetting he was there. Though in fairness, Dom’s presence is getting less and less noticeable as the days go by.

 

Somehow, life goes on. The whole household is tense with waiting. At lunch the day after the meeting in the library, a message arrives announcing King Miles arrival for three days hence. Ariadne has not attended a family meal since, and every time Arthur has tried to talk to her, she has been nowhere to be found. Dom speaks only when spoken to, perpetually pausing for someone to interject.

Arthur still hasn’t spoken to Eames about what happened between them the day Mal died. And he is afraid to bring up what Eames would not let happen.

In amongst all of this, though, the country has needed running and Mal’s funeral organising. Arthur has taken on what he can, accepting assignments from his father and ensuring he is available for his mother. This constant need to be doing things is what Arthur thinks is keeping him from Eames, but the day before King Miles is due to arrive, Arthur ends up with a free afternoon and finds Eames is not in their chambers waiting for him, or loitering in the servants’ quarters, or even tucked away finishing his portrait of Arthur. 

“Yusuf?” Arthur calls out as he opens the door Yusuf’s bedchamber. Yusuf startles, giving a yelp and Arthur turns away quickly, shielding his eyes.

“Sorry, you aren’t changing are you?”

“No,” Yusuf says with a laugh. But it isn’t his usual, fond and mocking laugh, it’s nervous, thin and unsure. “You can look, I’m quite presentable.”

“Well that’s debatable,” Arthur replies automatically. He looks at Yusuf, and apart from a high colour on his cheeks, a sheen of sweat across his forehead, he is as he says. “Are you well? You look feverish?”

“I’m fine,” Yusuf says quickly. “I’ve just been running errands for Dom. Well, for the king. Preparing for Mal’s father arriving. Packing up some of her things he might want.”

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Have you seen Eames?”

“I believe he’s visiting his family,” Yusuf says. Arthur’s stomach twists with disappointment. Not just to have missed Eames, but because Eames didn’t think to tell him where he was. Didn’t think to invite him along.

“I might go meet him in the marketplace,” Arthur says. “I have some time free.”

“He’s probably already on his way back,” Yusuf says. “He said he’d be back in time for lunch. Do you want me to send him to you when he gets in?”

“Yes please,” Arthur says, trying not to sound miserable. “I’ll be in our chambers. Can you tell the kitchen to send our lunch there?”

 

Eames is rather beautiful when he laughs, Arthur thinks, watching Eames as his teeth flash, his chest shakes and his eyes glimmer with mischief and mirth. He has never really given much thought to what other people look like, or to do much looking. But he likes looking at Eames, even if it does hurt a little.

It had been a few hours after Arthur spoke to Yusuf that Eames had appeared. He looked flushed and spilled apologies Arthur dismissed, assuring him he needed nothing more than company. This had evidently been the right thing to say as Eames had grinned at Arthur and crowded next to him on the sofa. There was still the maddening and lovely and confusing pause between Eames moving to touch Arthur and the moment of contact, during which Arthur supposes he could move out of the way. This time Eames wrapped himself around Arthur in a lingering embrace and Arthur had let himself lean into it, parting only when the servants brought in their, now rather late, lunch.

Now Eames is telling Arthur about his brother convincing a customer to spend a gold coin on a painting by their three year old cousin. Even as Arthur smiles and asks questions and teases Eames, he doesn’t feel quite right. There is still some sort of distance between them Arthur can’t shake and he’s sure it’s something to do with the words Eames wouldn’t let him say. It’s a puzzle, and usually Arthur likes being faced with one of those, but this one matters in ways state business and family drama never has. 

“Father was furious,” Eames says, shaking his head. “Even when he realised they managed to sell the painting for three times what the supplies were worth.”

“They say great artists are never appreciated in their own time,” Arthur says, although what he really wants to do is kiss Eames or ask him if it’s just a matter of time. If Eames needs to be courted, or won over like a princess in one of his fairy tales. “Although she still has sixty years to prove that wrong, I suppose.”

“Apparently it was just smears of colours, and Thom passed it off as a water damaged Fischer,” Eames says. “Which I think makes it my brother who is the unappreciated artist.”

“And who is-“

Arthur cuts off at the sound of urgent knocking at the door. He calls out permission to enter and one of the Queen’s personal servants appears, looking unusually flustered.

“Her Majesty, the Queen, wishes to inform you that Ariadne has gone missing and requests your assistance in searching the castle for her. Prince Dominic’s manservant Yusuf is also missing and her majesty requests you let your personal guard deal with him should he appear.”

Eames has gone completely still and stiff beside him and Arthur bites back dozens of questions, fighting to keep control of his emotions. Instead, he thanks the servant and goes to the door as she leaves. As he suspected, his mother has sent a guard to his door, Nash, the one Arthur finds most irritating to try and slip.

“Nash,” Arthur says.

Nash nods his acknowledgement with a murmured, “Your Majesty.”

“I need to speak to my husband about what has happened and then we will require your assistance looking for my sister,” Arthur says.

“Very good, sir,” Nash says.

Arthur closes the door carefully behind him and then gestures to Eames to follow him further into their chambers. Once their are safely ensconced in their bedchamber, away from prying ears, Arthur turns to Eames, fury warring with worry inside him.

“Did you know?” Arthur demands.

“Arthur,” Eames says, his voice placating, hands held up defensively. Arthur swallows hard, feeling tears, hot and angry and scared well in his eyes, tighten in his throat.

“Ari’s gone, Eames,” Arthur spits, but the anger is swept aside as a wave of fear crashes over him. “She’s run away with Yusuf, hasn’t she? Eames, tell me-“

“Yes, she’s gone, she’s with Yusuf,” Eames says quickly. “Darling, she’s safe I promise.”

“And you knew,” Arthur says. His voice comes out colder than he expected, lacking the fragility he feels at this. “How long have you known?”

“That they would run?” Eames says.

“Any of it,” Arthur says. “All of it.”

“You didn’t know they were in love?” Eames asks, sounding genuinely baffled.

“I-“ Arthur sags, because he _should_ have known something was happening. Even if Ariadne didn’t think she could tell him, he should have noticed. Should have thought about how confidently Ariadne had talked of love when he spoke of marriage to her. Should have thought about what it meant when it was Ariadne Yusuf would turn to, would seek out when things have happened. A laugh, bitter and harsh, rises in him as he thinks about finding Yusuf in Ariadne’s bedchambers so often, Ariadne skipping breakfasts, Yusuf warning Arthur to be more discreet with Eames. “I don’t think I wanted to know.”

Eames nods, as though this makes sense, as though this is not simply Arthur being ignorant and cowardly. It is little wonder, Arthur thinks, that Eames would not let Arthur spout words of love. He has been a fool, too involved in his own life to realise Ariadne’s has been slowly falling apart beside him for stars above knew how long.

“She’s- she was very understanding when I said I didn’t want to marry productively, when I said I wanted to marry you,” Arthur says. He’s still upset with Eames, but right now he is more ashamed of himself. More embarrassed. “She spoke of love- I didn’t realise she knew of it.”

“Because she’s not married,” Eames says gently. It makes Arthur feel like an absolute child. A child believing the pretty lies their parents tell them. There can be no love without sex. And there can be no sex without marriage. And Ariadne wasn’t married, so she could not be having sex and so how on earth could she be in love?

“Yes,” Arthur says, voice clipped. “I still thought- I didn’t think you could have love without sex and, well, why would you have sex unless you are married and you have to?”

“I know we’re fighting right now, pet,” Eames says. “But can we take a break from that so I can kiss you and hold you and tell you that you’re the sweetest creature I’ve ever met?”

Arthur flushes, certain his face and neck and even his arms must be a bright, burning red. “Yes,” Arthur agrees, trying to put as much reluctance into his voice as he can. Either it doesn’t work or Eames has very peculiar tastes, because all he gets is a glimpse of a grinning Eames before he is swept up into the aforementioned cuddle and finds his face peppered with kisses until he is laughing despite himself and they fall in a heap on the bed.

“You don’t still think that, do you?” Eames asks, murmuring the words into Arthur’s hair. Arthur tries to right himself, but Eames won’t let go, even though Arthur’s pretty sure his knee is digging into Eames’s thigh and his whole weight seems to have landed on Eames’s elbow. “That’s not why-“

“No,” Arthur says quickly. 

“Good,” Eames says, not waiting for Arthur to explain. To make any promises. “Do you want to go back to fighting now?”

“I think we need to.”

They sit up and straighten clothes, but don’t get off the bed again. Instead they sit facing each other, legs crossed like merchants, they way Eames had shown him how to sit so many weeks and months ago.

“You knew Ariadne was going to run,” Arthur says. He pauses, waiting for Eames to nod before continuing. “How long have you known? Did they tell you?”

“They didn’t tell me anything,” Eames says. “I think they knew I’d worked out what was happening, but saying this sort of thing out loud, bringing other people in complicates things. Or maybe they didn’t trust me, I don’t know. I approached them, after the meeting in the library, when your parents told us Ariadne was going to have to be married off soon.”

“It was your idea they run?” Arthur asks, feeling almost betrayed. His husband chasing his sister away. _So she could be happy_ , he reminds himself firmly, but it doesn’t help much.

“I knew they were going to do something. You saw Ariadne, she wasn’t going to take it lying down,” Eames says.

“But today, them leaving like this, was your idea?” Arthur says.

“Yes,” Eames admits and it takes a lot of willpower for Arthur not to throw himself off the bed, not to storm out. He’s having trouble looking at Eames right now, but when he does force himself to make eye contact, there’s a lot of guilt and desperation in Eames’s eyes.

“Why?” Arthur asks.

“I know some people, I could get them safe passage, somewhere to go, some way to make money when they got there,” Eames says and his eyes have widened, the green seems an impossible, stormy dark. “I wanted to keep them safe. I did this to help them, but also for you, Arthur, not to hurt you. If they had been left to do this themselves they might have gotten caught and Yusuf would have been arrested for kidnapping a princess. Or they might have gotten out and ended up begging on the streets of some far distant land where they don’t know the customs and could never have gotten word home. Arthur, love, they would never have been happy here, you wouldn’t have wanted that for them.”

“No,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t really know if he’s agreeing with Eames or rejecting him. There’s nothing untrue in what Eames says, and Arthur is desperately glad to know Ariadne and Yusuf had Eames’s help, is utterly grateful that this way there will still be a line of communication open between them, but something is still not right. “It didn’t have to be that way.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but this was the best I could think of,” Eames says. “If I could have done more for you, surely you know that I would.”

“That’s the problem,” Arthur says, almost thinking out loud. “This isn’t about you doing things for me. Our whole marriage- our whole relationship has been you doing things for me.”

“Darling that’s not true,” Eames says.

“When have you ever asked something of me?” Arthur demands, horrified to realise he can’t think of a time Eames has wanted something from him, something more than a letter opener for his father or adding spiced chocolate cakes back onto the wedding menu. Something real. Something substantial. 

“I haven’t needed anything,” Eames protests. “Just the fact of you has been enough, all these trappings and baubles don’t mean anything compared to getting you.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, leaning forward and cupping Eames’s face. He feels emboldened, buoyed by the knowledge that he knows what is wrong here. He can fix this. “Darling,” he says, carefully, the word feeling new and strange in his mouth. “You keep treating me like royalty. Of course you should feel you can ask more of me than I have given. I will make mistakes and I need to know that it’s okay, that I won’t have failed to live up to this perfect version of myself.”

“You won’t-“

“I can’t be your prince, Eames,” Arthur says, and he means it to sound firm, but it comes out pleading. “I need to be your husband.”

“Okay,” Eames says. Arthur shakes his head.

“I don’t think you really know what that means, not yet,” Arthur says, stroking his hand down Eames’s jaw before withdrawing it. “Don’t just say yes to please me, that’s… that’s the entire problem.”

“Darling,” Eames says, frowning. “I don’t know what I can say, then. If you won’t let me, if you don’t believe I can do it.”

Arthur sighs. “Why didn’t you tell me about Ariadne and Yusuf? Why didn’t you ask for my help?”

“Arthur,” Eames says softly, reaching a hand out to brush Arthur’s hair back from where it has fallen into his face. Arthur pushes the hand away, needing Eames to focus. Eames lets his hand drop and Arthur doesn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. “You’re already dealing with so much. Your parents are leaning on you for everything, Dom needs you and Ari needs you. I couldn’t burden you with more.”

“You’re not a burden,” Arthur says, shocked Eames would think this way. “You could never be a burden, you’re my husband, that’s the point. We should be working as a team, not a god and his supplicant.”

“And you’re the god in this situation?” Eames asks, looking at Arthur with so much incredulity, Arthur feels unexpected laughter rise in him. He sits up straighter, raising his chin and puffing out his chest.

“Obviously,” Arthur says, pouring years of listening to court sycophants into his voice, sounding pompous and absurd. 

“Well if we have that cleared up, am I allowed to agree now?” Eames says. Arthur sags and this time when Eames reaches for him, Arthur doesn’t protest, just lets Eames slide a hand around Arthur’s hip and pull him forward. They settle themselves, rearranging limbs until Arthur is half sat on Eames, and Eames has pressed his cheek against Arthur’s shoulders, arms wrapped around his waist. “I think it’s harder than I realised to leave behind the part of you that is a prince.”

“I love you,” Arthur says. Eames jerks his head up, making contact with Arthur’s jaw along the way. Arthur rubs the reddening spot and smiles at Eames.

“Sorry,” Eames mutters, wincing.

“For bruising my face or for telling me I couldn’t feel sadness and love at the same time?” Arthur says, grinning at Eames and shuffling around until he can look directly at Eames, check Eames knows he’s not really upset with him.

“For the face,” Eames says. “I’ll get back to you on the other matter.”

“No, don’t,” Arthur says. “It’s done. Just- every now and then remind yourself of some of my flaws, okay? Remember that you don’t have to be perfect for me, either.”

“It’s a burden, but of course I’ll try, pet,” Eames says gravely. “I was referring your love confession, though. I’m feeling a bit upstaged here. I didn’t really want the first time I said it to be parroted.”

“To be what?” Arthur asks.

“It’s a type of bird that repeats things people say to it,” Eames says. “Which isn’t really the point here, love.”

“Talking birds? That’s definitely the most interesting part of this conversation,” Arthur says. “Really, I think people focus too much on love, when there’s so much more out there in the world.”

“I’ll keep that in mind-“

“Wait,” Arthur says, cutting Eames off and feeling a plan start to form. “I think I know how to deal with King Miles.”

 

Nash does a poor job of hiding his disapproval as Arthur and Eames emerge from their chambers. Arthur had completely forgotten Nash was outside, had forgotten about Ariadne and Yusuf as soon as he knew they were safe. It wouldn’t normally bother him, he’s upset Nash more times than he can count, but he hates that Nash probably thinks they disappeared to have sex, immediately after hearing his sister disappeared.

“Any news?” Arthur asks. It’s not just to keep up appearances, all plans have risks and he needs to know as soon as possible if something has gone wrong so he can start thinking of solutions. 

“Nothing of Princess Ariadne, your majesty,” Nash says.

Arthur nods. “Eames and I need to consult with Prince Dominic, see if you can assist the guards elsewhere.”

“Apologies sir, but I was told to stay with you, Queen Alexandra’s orders,” Nash says, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

“Then you may escort us to his chambers,” Arthur says. He can’t really blame his mother for her paranoia, given the events of the last few days. All thoughts of whether he should be disgruntled or not disappear as Eames takes his hand, laces their fingers together. It’s showier than Arthur really wants to be, walking through the castle hand-in-hand with his new husband. But, he supposes, he did ask Eames to do more things for himself, and this is not really a hardship.

Dom’s not in his chambers, but they are directed to Ariadne’s and find him sitting on a sofa staring at a piece of parchment. 

“Mal left a note, too,” Dom says as they enter.

“Ariadne’s not dead,” Arthur says quickly. Eames locks the door behind them. 

“I know, I just-“ Dom sighs, and Arthur feels an echo of the weight Dom carries. He folds the paper and slides it under Ariadne’s pillow. “Mal didn’t think she was going to die.”

Arthur has no idea what to say to this. People with a desire to live rarely try to see if they can survive a drop from the top of a tower.

“She didn’t understand. She thought this,” Dom gestures vaguely and Arthur gathers he is not talking about the room they are standing in. “Was a dream. She said she was going to wake up. Wanted me to come too.”

“This is not a dream,” Arthur says sharply, feeling sick.

Dom nods, but Arthur’s not sure he’s really listening. “When she first started… when she first didn’t think anything was real, I didn’t know what to do. She wouldn’t do anything, she scared Phillipa, she stopped eating. I didn’t know what to do.”

“Dom-“

“So one day I told her it was all a dream,” Dom says. “Every time I told her we were real, every time I tried to get her to look at James, tried to get her to sing for Pippa, she just… shut down. Or got angry with me. So I thought, I’ll turn it into a game. We used to do that when we were younger, before we started courting, when we were still children. We’d play make believe. These absurd and complicated games of dreamers and dreams. I told her that’s what this was. It was a dream and I was the dreamer and she had to pretend it was real or we wouldn’t be able to leave. ‘Time to wake up’, that’s what her note said.”

“It’s not your fault,” Arthur says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You didn’t make her… stop believing. You just tried to help her.”

“I loved her so much, Arthur,” Dom says. He looks up and there are dark circles beneath his eyes, and his gaze is sharp, pained.

“I know you did,” Arthur says. “No one doubts that.”

“I loved her so much, but I hated her for a lot of those last few months,” Dom says. “I think part of me was relieved when she died.”

“She was gone long before she left you in the tower,” Eames says, glancing at Arthur, clearly unsure of his place. Arthur gives him an encouraging nod. “Something took her and you just tried to take her back. It’s not your fault you couldn’t do that.”

“I’m glad Ari’s gone,” Dom says. Arthur can’t tell if he really heard what Eames said, if it meant anything to him. “She deserves a chance to be happy.”

 

King Miles arrives just as lunch is finishing, with far less pomp and circumstance than his last visit. He has brought only a basic entourage, travelling without his wife or children. He declines offers to rest. They meet in what Arthur’s grandfather used to call The War Room. They exchange formal greeting and condolences. 

“We are honoured by your presence, I know it is a long journey to undertake,” Queen Alexandra says.

Arthur looks at Dom, willing him to remember the plan. It hadn’t taken much to get Dom to agree to trying it, but Arthur’s not sure he was convinced how successful it could be. Or if he would be able to fight their parents for control of the conversation.

“You and Mal must have taken that journey a lot,” Arthur says, before his mother has a chance to continue. While he looks no less washed out, Dom starts to look more alert, and gives Arthur a small, determined nod. 

“Mal loved that journey,” Dom says, not quite looking at King Miles, but his whole body is turned away from his mother, subtly cutting her out of the conversation. “Any travelling really. Said it was a little gift of time without demands. A place where she wasn’t expected to be a princess.”

“That’s not what she used to think as a child,” King Miles says with a small smile. “She used to grow so impatient for the journey to be over. She would ask if this is what the priests meant when they spoke of souls trapped in limbo. I think she lacked enough mischief in her life.”

“She certainly had enough of it with me,” Dom says. 

King Miles laughs, and it’s Mal’s laugh, her proper light and faintly musical laugh that no one had heard for a long time now. Dom’s face twists, not quite a smile, not really an unhappy expression. Arthur wants to reach for Eames, but there a limits on what he will do in front of his family. 

“She loved it in Proclus,” King Miles says. “She would write and complain about the countryside and the food, but she was so happy it bled through every word.”

“Did she ever tell you about the marketplace?” Dom asks. Arthur sneaks a glance at Eames, and he is looking back, a soft smile lurking in his eyes. 

“A significant success for Proclus,” King Marnack says. Arthur can tell this conversation is not going the way he expected. “She was proud of it, as all citizens are.”

“It’s nothing like the one we used to go to,” Dom continues.

“She said it was like a puzzle,” King Miles says. He smiles fondly at Dom. “Although she used to say that about you too, my boy.”

“After Phillipa was born, she would get homesick and we found a stall that sold cheese nests, proper flaky ones, and sit and watch the crowds,” Dom finishes. 

“How did she die, Dom?” King Miles asks after a long, heavy pause. 

“A tragic accident-“ Queen Alexandra begins, but Dom cuts her off, not sharply, more as though he hadn’t noticed she was speaking.

“Quietly,” Dom says. “They told me quickly, without too much suffering.”

“Can one really die like that, though?” King Miles asks wistfully.

“I don’t know,” Dom admits. “But she died loved, I know that much.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” King Miles says, nodding to King Marnack and Queen Alexandra. “If you’ll excuse us, I’d like to speak to Dom in private.”

It’s clear they want to protest, but King Miles has swept Dom out of the room, in his quiet and calm manner, before they really have a chance. Eames is beaming at Arthur, looking so pleased and proud. Arthur wishes he could find the words to explain it was him, that it was the fact of Eames, of loving and being loved by Eames that let Arthur finally realise what King Miles would really need from them. Need to leave the two countries drawn closer by Mal’s death, not torn apart. 

“What is Dom playing at?” King Marnack demands. “This is no time for reminiscing. He should be asking after Renée, letting us discuss the treaty.”

“He’s not going to marry one of Mal’s sisters,” Arthur says. His parents frown at him, and he can feel their disappointment, their confusion. His mother’s eyes flick to Eames and he knows they think Eames has already led him astray. But his parents’ approval doesn’t matter. He is a prince of the realm, and what matters is his people and he knows what Dom is doing is not only the right thing, but the best thing for the country.

“How many years did Dom spend living in King Miles’s court?” Arthur asks, not pausing for an answer. “King Miles loves Dom as one of his own. He will not break the treaty with us over Mal’s death, he hasn’t come here to start war. He has come to grieve the loss of his daughter with one he knows loved her as he did. If Dom asks to start courting Renée or Violette or… Claude, King Miles will take that as a huge disservice to Mal’s memory.”

“He cannot expect Dom to remain single forever,” Queen Alexandra protests.

“There’s a difference between a few days and forever,” Arthur says quietly. “Let them grieve. In a few years, I imagine Dom will be ready for marriage, but he won’t want to marry Mal’s sister. King Miles won’t want that.”

King Marnack leans back in his chair, crossing his arms and considers Arthur. “We’ll see how it goes.”

 

King Miles stays only a few days, spending most of them with James and Phillipa, or alone with Dom. When he leaves, it is with no ill-will, only sadness and requests Dom and the children accompany him, for Mal’s funeral, even if it can not be longer. Arthur regretfully turns down the invitation to visit as well, knowing his parents are going to need him in Dom’s absence. King Miles is not offended, simply repeats the invite for a later date, encouraging him to bring Ariadne, too, when she returns from her travels. 

“Her travels,” King Marnack repeats thoughtfully, when Arthur relays the invitation.

“I told him she was visiting relatives across the country,” Dom says. There is a defiance to him that Arthur is sure was not there before. “I said she took Mal’s death hard and wanted to take the time to reconnect with her brothers and sisters. He thought it was a touching tribute to Mal’s memory.”

“And when, pray tell, is she coming back from this tour of the country?” King Marnack asks.

“Let her go, father,” Dom says, and to his surprise Dom reaches out, clasps their father’s arm. “The kingdom is safe, the people are happy, the coffers are full. Would making Ariadne miserable really fix any of that?”

King Marnack doesn’t reply.

 

With careful deliberation, Arthur slides into bed that night as though Eames isn’t going to be sharing it with him. He brings some papers to read, settles himself so he is neither encroaching on Eames’s side nor avoiding the middle of the bed, and doesn’t watch as Eames goes about his own evening routine. There is no point hoping, he knows, because he no idea what to hope for. Intimacy or isolation, both and neither at the same time. 

He feels the bed move as Eames crawls in next to him, their bodies close but not touching, settles himself down on his front, face turned to watch Arthur. It soothes Arthur somewhat, to see how awkwardly Eames reaches out a hand to rest on Arthur, first brushing over his hip and then flattening over his breastbone. They are in this together, struggling together, wanting together. 

“Can I ask you a question, pet?” Eames says. “Or are you being terribly busy and important right now?”

Arthur glances down at him, feeling himself unclench in response to the way Eames’s mouth is curved in amusement. He looks back at his papers. “I can read and solve your problems at the same time.”

From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see Eames grin at him. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from beaming back.

“What I can’t work out, is what it takes to get arrested in this kingdom,” Eames says, sighing dramatically.

“Oh?” Arthur says, shuffling his papers around. “I wasn’t aware you were trying.”

“Darling!” Eames says, sounding outraged. “I am an excellent candidate for being thrown in the dungeons. In the short time we’ve known each other, why I’ve stolen from a prince, blackmailed him into marrying me, gotten the crown prince drunk, and arranged for a princess to be kidnapped. What more can a man do!”

Arthur hums thoughtfully. “I think you’re taking a lot of credit for things you haven’t done there.” He looks down at Eames. “Or, actually, a lot of those things are worthy of praise not punishment. You returned stolen treasure, secured an important alliance, comforted the crown prince in the hour of his need, and rescued a princess so she could live with her true love.”

Eames moans and turns his head into his pillows. “I’m never going to get to see the dungeons,” he says, or at least, Arthur thinks that’s what he’s saying. He takes this chance to drop his hand onto Eames’s head, stroking his hair in the most absent way he knows how.

“There, there,” Arthur says. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Without dislodging Arthur’s hand, Eames turns his head and glares at Arthur. 

“ _We_ ’ll think of something,” Arthur amends, smiling at Eames. Eames nods, mollified.

“What are you reading, pet?” Eames asks, but doesn’t sit up to see what Arthur is holding.

“Just some proposals I’m drafting,” Arthur says.

Eames yawns and strokes Arthur’s stomach. “Marrying anyone good?”

“Not that kind of proposal. Court business. A garden of remembrance for Mal, an excuse for Dom to stay with King Miles for a few more weeks.” Arthur sighs and shuffles his papers. “Something to explain why Ariadne isn’t coming back.”

“Ah,” Eames says. “Yes, I suppose people might start to talk, admirably though your mother did squash the kidnapping rumours. I presume your family doesn’t actually have enough cousins for her to spend fifty years visiting them?”

“No,” Arthur says. “And the ones we do have are bound to eventually start to wonder why Ariadne hasn’t come to see them.”

“I’m beginning to see merit in your ‘work together’ mentality,” Eames says, glancing up at Arthur and looking away again. Arthur’s not sure if he’s feeling guilty or embarrassed or just wants to avoid a fight. He puts his papers aside and shuffles down in the bed, turning on his side and putting a hand on Eames’s hip. 

“I don’t know if I could have let her go,” Arthur admits. “I don’t know how I would have fixed it.”

Eames looks back to Arthur, holding his gaze this time, a small, almost sad smile curving his lips. “You wouldn’t have had to do it on your own, Arthur.”

It seems stupid to be this close to Eames, to be lying here in the dim light sharing breaths and fears and assurances, and not also be kissing Eames, so Arthur moves in and presses their lips together.

“No,” he says. “Not on my own.”

Eames smiles and Arthur lets himself forget about his work, lets himself just watch Eames, be watched in return, and drift off slowly to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just the epilogue to go! Should be up in a couple of days, bar the series of mishaps that kept this chapter from the world for so long! (sorry about that! travelling is amazing, but not always conducive to fic uploading)


	13. Epilogue

Arthur trips over a wooden puzzle and curses his sister. Then he looks more carefully at the toy and curses his husband as well.

“What did I do this time?” Eames asks cheerfully, wandering in from Ariadne’s kitchen, presumably in response to Arthur swearing up a storm in the entrance.

“Sent my sister death traps,” Arthur says, glaring at the offending item and easing off his shoe to inspect the damage. “Taught her poor housekeeping skills. Left me to go and inspect the well on my own.”

“Did I really do all of that? What a terrible husband I am, I really don’t know why you put up with me, darling,” Eames says. “Let me make it up to you. Would you like a cuddle? A cake? Some witty conversation?”

“Stop that,” Arthur complains, trying very hard not to smile at Eames. “I was the idiot who insisted on going out and pretending I knew anything about wells - which I apparently don’t, by the way, so if there is something wrong I have doomed us all. And my sister knows perfectly well how to keep a house in order, she just chooses not to.”

“Does this mean you need to make this up to me?” Eames asks. “I would definitely like some cake to go with that gorgeous smile, pet.”

Arthur tries to glare harder at Eames, but his cheeks are flushed and his mouth wants to curve quite badly. “The death trap is definitely your fault.”

Eames tilts his head thoughtfully. “So did we come out even, then? Will there be no cake?”

If Arthur smiles, Eames wins, so Arthur storms over to Eames and says, “Shut up,” before pulling Eames into a kiss.

Once Eames has enquired if stalemates will always end in kisses, and been glared at for his trouble, they dress for court and leave a note for Ari and Yusuf, letting them know where they are.

 

They’ve been in Cobol for two weeks and Arthur is loving the freedom and the responsibility in his role as a diplomat. He’s his own master here, with only the overarching instruction to see what can be done to improve relations between the two kingdoms, to investigate the possibility of a treaty.

“Unless our parents will allow a treaty that is not sealed with a marriage, they do know a treaty is impossible, right?” Ariadne had asked, shortly after they had arrived.

“They don’t,” Arthur had replied cheerfully. “But they don’t really expect me to achieve what they have been unable to for all these years. Which means I can focus on trade relations and visiting my sister.”

“And confusing the courtiers,” Eames had added.

To Arthur’s surprise, he discovered that the Cobol court was about as ignorant about Proclus marriage customs and the Proculus court was about Cobolian ones. Certainly they had heard of unproductive marriages, but it becomes quickly apparent they don’t realise it is a romantic relationship. A fact that brings much delight to Eames.

“Does Cobol feel more like home than Proclus?” Arthur asks as they wait for their appointment with the keeper of the court treasury.

“I was raised in Proclus,” Eames says. A courtier enters and nods hello, sprawling on a sofa across the room. He squints at their joined hands, eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t spend much time in Cobol, just saw the trading ports and a few markets. Proclus is my home, pet.”

Eames leans over to kiss Arthur’s cheek and the courtier sits bolt upright, looking around the room, as if hoping someone will come out and explain what is happening.

“You seem to be enjoying it quite a lot here,” Arthur says, letting Eames rearrange them so he is tucked close to Eames’s side. He had drawn the line at being actually sat in Eames’s lap when they waited for a meeting with some of the diplomats who regularly visited Proclus. Arthur wonders if keeping people waiting is a Cobolian habit, or if Eames has set Arthur’s watch forward so they are always early and have a chance to confuse an audience.

“They gave us separate chambers,” Eames says, sounding disgusted.

“We’re staying with Ariadne,” Arthur points out.

“That’s not the point, darling,” Eames says. “We’re married. Married people get to share chambers.”

“They don’t marry unproductively here, you know that,” Arthur says.

“Yes, but they know what _marriage_ is,” Eames says. “It’s not hard to work out it means the same thing regardless of whether children are a byproduct or not.”

“Amongst the lowborn and traders, maybe,” Arthur says. “But we’re in court now. They’ve never met royalty who married unproductively. I think they presumed it was not really a marriage, more of an agreement, to do with your father’s money.”

“So when I do this,” Eames says, pulling Arthur in for a kiss.

“They don’t know what to make of it, yes,” Arthur says as they break apart. The courtier is outright staring at them now, eyes wide, gripping his chair. Arthur leans in as though to kiss Eames again, but stops just shy of his lips. “Haven’t we had this conversation already?”

“Mmm,” Eames hums agreeably, brushing a few fleeting, featherlight kisses against Arthur’s mouth. “You started it this time.”

“I did not,” Arthur protests, turning his head, but letting Eames press a lingering kiss to his temple. “I was trying to have an actual conversation with you. Not just an excuse to shock the locals.”

“We can have a real conversation if you want, pet,” Eames says. “Although there’s no reason we can’t create court gossip at the same time. Go ahead, converse away.”

“Do you like it here more than Proclus?” Arthur asks.

“Two chambers,” Eames replies.

“Be serious,” Arthur says.

“I’m always serious about bedroom maths,” Eames says. Arthur elbows Eames. “Are you suggesting we move here?”

“Maybe,” Arthur says. “At least, we could establish something more permanent here. Something with the correct number of chambers. You know Father isn’t going to stop trying to get this treaty any time soon. I could convince him to set us up with an allowance and we could spend most of the year here. If you wanted to.”

Eames doesn’t reply right away. Arthur knows Eames wants to agree, wants to please Arthur, but this pause is something they have agreed to. A way of making sure Eames doesn’t ignore what he needs in favour of what Arthur wants.

“The novelty of not having our marriage understood would wear off quickly,” Eames says at last. Arthur nods.

“Of course,” Arthur says. “It was just an idea-“

“So I wouldn’t want to be here all year round,” Eames says, cutting Arthur off. “We could do a few months at a time, and then back home. Find a balance that suits us.”

Arthur smiles at Eames. “You can go first if you want.”

Eames rolls his eyes, but dips his head so their foreheads are pressed together. “I love you, you ridiculous creature.”

“I’m glad I didn’t decide to have you hanged for treason,” Arthur says.

“You never threatened me with that,” Eames says. “It was dismemberment. Dismemberment and pastries, you old romantic.”

“The pastries were your idea,” Arthur points out. “And just because I never said it, doesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”

“My apologies, darling,” Eames says. “Do I get a proper ‘I love you’?”

“Not having people hanged is how I show love,” Arthur says. “But I’ll buy you a pastry on the way home if you like.”

Eames beams at him. “I’ll return your coin purse.”

“I love you, too,” Arthur says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished! Thanks for reading! And very special thank you so much for those who have stuck with this story through its many hiatuses, especially those who have been commenting as it's updated <3
> 
> Thank you also to my lovely betas [holesinthesky](http://theresholesinthesky.tumblr.com/) and ladyprydian!
> 
> Not sure what's next, but at the very least I won't be moving countries twice and house 3 times during the process which hopefully is not where the magic comes from ;) 
> 
> Do feel free to comment or send me at ask at my [tumblr](http://likeanelephantfootprint.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://likeanelephantfootprint.tumblr.com)!


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